There'll be some changes made
by Lucia di L
Summary: AU, Prohibition era. New York City, 1923. After Joffrey Baratheon breaks their engagement, Sansa Stark ends up in Petyr Baelish's brothel, where she works as a dancer. She soon realizes her customers die one after the other... Warning for violence and adult themes.
1. Red sky at morning

**Disclaimer: All the characters belong to George R. R. Martin.  
**

**This fic wouldn't exist without the support and help of my fantastic beta reader, Underthenorthernlights, that's why this work is dedicated to her. **

**In this story, Sansa is eighteen and she has only one brother: Robb. **

**For this first chapter, there's a warning for suicidal thoughts and violence against women. Don't read this if you're not comfortable with these themes.**

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The void tempted her; the white-stone guardrail wouldn't be an obstacle, and thirty feet below, asphalt would welcome her, give her the quick death she yearned for. She would have black pillows on her deathbed. Sansa Stark didn't know people who had committed suicide and she was sure it was a sin, yet her faith had been put to the test, lately. She didn't pray anymore, she didn't go to the church. She didn't go anywhere, actually. The large balcony overlooking the busy street, the other one with a view of the back alley and the gorgeous room she had been given were the only places she would visit. She couldn't even lock herself in: bolts don't exist in brothels. So there she was, forced to stay in the large, beautiful bedroom with silk wall hangings of peach and cream-white and a massive four-poster bed, reminding her of her new social status.

Two years ago, things were quite different though and she had convinced herself she would taste the perfect life Edith Wharton's heroines lived in New York; she would have a big outstanding mansion opening onto Central Park, wear the finest clothes and go to receptions and garden-parties. She would belong to the best circles.

For a sixteen-year-old girl born and raised in Saint Paul, Minnesota, the prospect of moving to New York City had been thrilling. New York meant all she had ever dreamed of: hustle and bustle in the streets, incredible parties and a different way of life. Even if her family was prominent in Saint Paul, with her father's bank and her elder brother's hydroelectric power plant, living in New York would propel her in a new and exciting world.

The day Robert Baratheon had come to visit Eddard, her father, his reputation as a successful banker preceded him: he suggested that Eddard and the group he ruled make an alliance. No one would resist them, he had said. It was the only way for Eddard's bank to become more than the most popular bank in Minnesota: their future group would have customers from the Canadian border to the Atlantic. However, Eddard had to move to New York City, because banks couldn't ignore the stock exchange anymore and because everything would be more convenient.

Her father needed to be persuaded, but Robert Baratheon was good at convincing people. Sansa remembered him sitting in their blue dining room at the end of the dinner, putting aside her mother's precious china plates of blue and gold and gesturing over the white starched tablecloth. Robert Baratheon, with his tall and massive figure had something so reassuring Sansa couldn't help smiling when he was around. He knew how to make her father laugh and she immediately loved him for that reason.

Robert Baratheon had other plans: brokering a marriage between Sansa and his son Joffrey, who coveted the seat of governor of New York state. Joffrey needed a wife and she had just made her debut in Saint-Paul; Robert suggested all the Stark family – except her brother Robb who had to stay to manage his power plant – moved to New York. He promised Sansa and her mother Catelyn that his wife Cersei and his daughter Myrcella would take them to their friends' houses.

He promised the girl a new life, much more exciting that what she had known so far and, in the end, it was Sansa who persuaded her parents, begging and coaxing them like she did when she was eight and asked them for a new doll. Her father was always weak when she made her 'pretty please' face; he yielded, closing his eyes and puckering up as if he had eaten a sour cherry. At that moment, Sansa was hopping up and down with impatience, without understanding why he was so reluctant and what Eddard Stark, a well-known banker, feared so much.

The expression she had read on his face still haunted her, two years later. Her heart in her throat, she observed the urban landscape plunged into semi-darkness as the sun went down; over there, on the left, there was a large red brick house she wished she could forget.

At first, their stay in New York was in accordance with her expectations: she visited the city with Cersei and Myrcella, her eyes widening in front of the large avenues and the theaters. She flirted with Joffrey. She spent hours in the Red Mansion, the large and lavish house the Baratheons possessed on 5th Avenue. At that time, the fact that Joffrey Baratheon was not the charming prince she had imagined and sometimes treated her with an unexpected rudeness didn't matter, even after their engagement; when she was sad, she just had to stride along the large streets and to watch the passers-by hurrying in Grand Central Station or down any subway entrance to regain her composure.

Whenever she came back home, she would stop at her father's office to tell him what she had done or to show him the new dress she had bought, but Eddard Stark looked anxious; with a furrowed brow, he contemplated the papers displayed on his desk. He began to talk about the local mafia and the bootleggers. Month after month, the creases on his forehead deepened, until Robert Baratheon died.

The rich banker ate and drank too much: everyone knew he couldn't live to be a hundred and, in Sansa's eyes, he was old enough to die, yet there was something that made her uncomfortable with Robert's death, especially when her parents began to whisper about it at night, when they were alone in the dining room and thought she didn't listen. When they talked about bootlegging, election fraud and corruption, she understood Robert's death was nowhere near natural.

Catelyn and Eddard Stark were on their way to the police precinct when they had a car accident. People reported that their chauffeur, Henry, was drunk but she didn't believe it; Henry worked for her family since Robb's birth and he didn't drink alcohol because his own father was a drunkard. _Only someone who doesn't know Henry can make up such a story._

Immediately after her parents' death, Cersei Baratheon told Sansa she could live with them all in the Red Mansion, but it sounded like an order rather than an invitation. Catelyn and Eddard Stark's funeral took place in Robb's absence and no one told her where her brother was nor why he couldn't make it. Sansa cried her eyes out but she didn't know yet what kind of ordeal awaited her.

Since her arrival, on a sunny afternoon of May, two years before, what she enjoyed most were her wanderings in New York: she had explored one area after another, she had raised her gaze to watch the buildings, her gloved hand holding her hat. Cersei made it clear the day she moved in the Red Mansion: Sansa couldn't leave the house without her or Joffrey and it would be better if she stayed in her room; thus the gorgeous house on 5th Avenue became her jail.

Her daily routine was either gloomy or terrifying; the good days, when Joffrey and Cersei ignored her, she shut herself away in her room, listening to Allegri's _Miserere_. Her father's phonograph and his collection of 78 rpm were all she had left. This sound recording was Eddard's favorite and whenever she listened to the two choirs answering each other, she felt like he was still by her side. On the bad days, Joffrey deployed a wealth of imagination to humiliate her and sometimes asked one of his men to beat her.

Leaving the balcony where she stood, she slowly walked to the phonograph, gingerly took the shellac 78 rpm her father loved so much then placed it on the turntable before lowering the tonearm so that the stylus brushed the glossy surface of the record. Once she heard the singers' voices, plaintive and serene at the same time, the ugly world she lived in disappeared. Closing her eyes, she fancied herself in Saint Paul, in the library where her father used to relax after a hard day. She had been happy there, even if she had ignored it at the time. _Happy and loved and free to do what I wanted._

As soon as they had flooded in the room, the voices shushed and she opened her eyes again. Nothing had changed: she was stuck in the splendid bedroom Petyr Baelish had given her, one week ago.

After her parents' funeral, when she realized she was trapped with Cersei and Joffrey, she wondered why they didn't just let her go. She got her answer when Cersei, supported by a bunch of lawyers, asked her to sign documentation. It said Sansa renounced her parents' inheritance; she understood Cersei was taking over the bank Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark had created, in all likelihood to pay for Joffrey's election campaign.

She refused to sign anything and Cersei asked the lawyers to leave them alone. She then showed Sansa a newspaper cutting from the Saint Paul Dispatch; the snippet related how a large part of Robb's power plant had been damaged by fire, five days ago.

"It could happen in your parents' estate, next time," Cersei warned her. "I've heard your brother still lives there."

"I want to talk to him," Sansa begged. "Please, let me talk to Robb."

The blond woman she once thought to be her friend looked down at her, silent.

"If I sign this documentation, I want to go back to Minnesota."

"I'm afraid you're not in a position to ask anything," Robert's widow replied coldly. "Sign this, and your dear brother will live."

Cersei gave her the documentation with a fountain pen and she had no other choice than to comply.

In the Red Mansion, she had an overview of the Baratheon activities: now she understood that the numerous men Robert had presented her as body guards who took care of his family's safety were in fact hatchet men. Blackmailing people, like she had done with Sansa, was only one of Cersei's many ways to make sure her son would be the next governor. Her family, the Lannisters, moved in and Sansa soon understood that their wealth was based on numerous fields, bootlegging being the most profitable of all.

In Saint Paul, many people – including Eddard – said that the federal government did little to enforce the Volstead Act which prohibited the sale of alcohol, but to Cersei's great displeasure, her own brother-in-law, Stannis Baratheon, was a member of the Coast Guard Office. A few days after Sansa renounced to her inheritance, an uncommon nervousness took hold of the men who worked for the Red Mansion. The morning after, she heard a shootout had happened on a beach, in New Jersey, between bootleggers and police force. Bootleggers had managed to escape, but they had lost most of their shipment.

Sansa was reading the newspaper, trying to give meaning to what she witnessed in the Red Mansion when Joffrey told her her presence wasn't necessary anymore. He was now engaged to Margaery Tyrell, the daughter of a wealthy manufacturer, and he explained to Sansa she would be welcome in one of the brothels his treasurer, Petyr Baelish, owned in Manhattan.

When she thought about it a week later, she recalled few details of her last meeting with Joffrey; she cried so much that it was all a blur. She begged, knelt in front of him, she even believed for a while it was some trick Joffrey had made up to torture her, before telling her it was a jape. But it was no jape: a housemaid was filling a trunk with her belongings and two of the Kettleblack brothers escorted her out of the Red Mansion. The thought of Catelyn's reaction if she could see her at that moment overwhelmed Sansa. Shame or sorrow weren't enough to express what she felt: becoming a whore meant decay. All her mother's efforts to raise her as a well-bred young lady would be wrecked and her family's honor shattered.

Thus, she was on her balcony, as the night fell on New York, filling the air with a mix of odors: onions, grease and smoke. _Disgusting._ Later on, there would be men singing and shouting in the streets. Hoarse or high-pitched, she wouldn't enjoy their voices, however: she had a guest, tonight, a customer who was about to arrive. She shivered in her flimsy dress and the contact of the smooth fabric brought back the pain.

When she had arrived in the four-stories building where two dozens ladies entertained men, Petyr Baelish had told her she wouldn't work as a prostitute to begin with. She would be a private dancer for a month or two, until he found some patron to whom he could sell her maidenhood. By then, she was supposed to welcome her customers in her bedroom and to dance for them between her large bed and the balcony.

Two nights before, a fat man had been her first customer. At first, the fear he read in her eyes pleased the man. "A true maiden" he said. Then, when she adamantly refused to dance for him, he became mad. He beat her back with his leather belt, before forcing her to perform what he had paid for. Once he was gone, she threw herself on her bed and sobbed; she didn't know one could feel so desperate. She decided to call him _'Pig'_ as a pointless revenge, but it didn't soothe her.

The madam, a Russian woman in her thirties named Peitho, came to her room, tried to comfort her and applied ointment on her sore back. Peitho ruled the brothel when Baelish was not there; and though she was the one who had opened the door to the fat man, Sansa had no one to turn to, and she felt grateful for the comfort the woman gave her.

The next day brought another customer and this one was different. Or perhaps Sansa was different already; what she had endured had made her submissive. He came from Russia, was an acquaintance of Peitho and his activities remained secret. He was talkative, though, praised her beauty and called her "my sweet sister". The Russian man was almost kind, compared to the fat man, but when he left, she realized the end of the following day would only bring another customer and she had no way out. There was only the brothel and more customers on the horizon.

She went back to the balcony, grabbed the guardrail and sat on it, looking at the city. Far away, there was the Red Mansion, almost invisible in the first hours of night. She had escaped from Joffrey's clutches, but every night, there was a different Joffrey knocking at her door.

When she was younger, back in Saint Paul, her friend Jeyne Poole had told her once there were whores in a certain area of the town and she had explained Sansa what they were supposed to do. She remembered the shock she had felt. Whores would most likely go to Hell after their death, because of their behavior. _But this is Hell. Hell can't be worse than that. So where am I to go when I die?_ When Sansa had arrived in Grand Central Station two years ago, she had marveled at the sight of the station her favorite novel, _The House of Mirth_, described in the opening scene. She had just forgotten that, Lily Bart, like most of Edith Wharton's heroines, ended up alone and unhappy. _So unhappy she only found relief in her own death. Should I jump before it is too late?_

A soft knock on her door made her shiver; she tried to regain her composure and quickly came back inside the room. When the door opened, she saw a frightened Peitho glancing at her and she feared the worst. The tall and slim madam was almost shaking in front of Sansa's customer. Peitho gave her a faint smile and let the man in.

As an imposing figure obscured the light coming from the landing, Sansa's heart skipped a beat: she knew this huge man, with his face half-hidden by dark hair. He wore a large overcoat; an attempt to go through the streets unnoticed, as if a man as tall and as taciturn as the Hound could be inconspicuous. _And he knows me_, she thought. _He talked to me, frightened me, laughed at me, but that's not enough: now he wants this to happen. Or maybe Joffrey sent him to humiliate me._

As Peitho shut the door, Sansa mumbled 'Good evening' and her voice sounded like the squeak of a mouse. The Hound didn't answer and kept staring at her. Then he moved, as if he had changed his mind and, turning his back to her, he began to look for something. Wordlessly, he observed the walls of the room as if they could hide some treasure.

"It must be somewhere," he whispered to himself. "There is always..."

He gave a sigh of relief and pointed at the wall: on the left side of the door, there was a small hole she had never noticed before, because it was hidden by a bronze statuette displayed on the console table. The Hound seemed almost triumphant when he looked at her. Then he removed his overcoat and put it there, to make sure nobody could see what was to happen in Sansa's bedroom.

Terrified, she realized at the same time somebody could have been observing her the nights before and no one could help her if the Hound meant to hurt her. A fit of rage was very likely. _He's always drunk. He likes to frighten me. And he's a killer; he never tried to hide it._

When he stopped in front of her, she was shaking like a leaf. He towered above Sansa and scrutinized her. Perhaps he was taking his time. She wondered if men took as much pleasure eyeing women greedily as sleeping with them. Pig had looked at her for a long time, as well. But Pig, as heavy as he was, wasn't a war veteran like the Hound; he didn't make a living out of beating up people who were in debt to the Lannister family. The Hound's big hands could crush her if he decided to. And the pain she had been through with Pig, when he had beaten her, would seem a flick in comparison. She clung to Peitho's advices, despite her fear, and tried to stay still, her back straight, like a soldier ready for the parade.

"Forget about modesty," Peitho had said with a hint of foreign accent. "Men want to see you. Sight is the most important sense in our trade. So let them have a look at you and keep your back straight. You're a beautiful girl and that's why they're here."

Instead of feeling beautiful, she was miserable and desperate. She had had this opportunity to jump, a short while ago and she had not seized it. At least she was sure this night would gave her the strength to leap into the void. Before long, she would be lying on the asphalt, thirty feet below.

"Please sit down," she stammered, shakily gesturing to the armchair placed between the four-poster bed and the balcony.

The large, brand-new leather armchair was typical of the fashionable style of the moment; one could imagine its amber-colored leather and its soft curves in the offices of the last floor of a skyscraper. Sansa felt like it revealed the excesses of the era: the armchair was far too big, and its leathery scent lingered in the air, no matter how often she opened the French door leading to the balcony.

In three long strides, he reached the armchair, sat down casually and fixed his eyes on her again. Ill-at-ease, she turned and walked to the phonograph, replaced Allegri's _Miserere_ in its sleeve and chose _You'd be surprised_, by Irving Berlin. _A joyful tune: I need it. I need to listen to the music and to forget who's in front of me._

As the first notes flooded in the large bedroom, his raspy voice made her shiver.

"What is it? What happened to your back?"

_He has seen the cuts._ She wasn't sure she could explain to a customer what another customer had done to her. Baelish and Peitho wouldn't be pleased.

"It's nothing. Nothing at all."

"Come here and tell me who did that to you," he commanded.

She left the phonograph and went back to the place where he was sitting; she kept her distance though and, following Peitho's advice, she stopped two yards before the armchair, so that he couldn't touch her.

"What happened?" he asked again, narrowing his eyes.

He was tall enough to make the oversized armchair look strangely small; this realization didn't comfort her and she wished she could disappear. She took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry. I'm going to stop the phonograph and put the needle back-"

"Forget about it," he rasped. "You have gashes on your back. What happened?"

Losing patience, he stood up and she flinched at once. Before she could react, he grabbed her shoulders, made her spin on her heels and held her upper arms firmly.

"You can't touch me," she protested. "Peitho said-"

"I don't care what the blond whore said. Obviously someone did touch you. Now tell me what happened."

He was staring at the long gashes Pig's belt had made on the top of her back. I should have put another dress on, instead of some stupid fancy dress with straps. At the same time, she knew she couldn't wear any dress when she was supposed to dance. All the clothes she had for that purpose were more or less like the old rose dress she had chosen that night: they revealed her shoulders, the top of her back and they had a low neckline. Feeling his breath on her neck, she decided she would gave him the piece of information he required and she hoped he would be satisfied enough to let her go.

"Someone beat me," she said plainly.

"Who did that to you?"

"I- I didn't obey and he beat me," she explained. "I deserved it."

Slightly turning her head, she saw his large shoulder and a part of his hideous scars.

"I didn't ask you what you did. Look at me and tell me who did that to you."

The pressure on her upper arms vanished and she turned around. He was towering above her again; she backed away and he immediately stepped forward, until he was flush with her.

"This is a strange kind of dance we're dancing, girl. Who?" he insisted. "His name."

"I think his name is Gerald Halder. He has a restaurant on 8th Avenue."

"As if I didn't know who Gerald Halder is," he said briskly. He walked to the console table where he had left his coat and when he came back to her, he was carrying a small pot.

"Ointment," he said. "From Pycelle. Thought it could be useful. What did you mean when you said you didn't obey?"

He cupped her chin and forced her to lock eyes with him. Her eyes flickered on his face, trying to avoid the burns disfiguring the Hound so that she could focus on his grey eyes instead.

"He was my first customer and he had paid a lot of money to see me dancing and singing, so when I refused to dance... he got mad at me."

"The little bird rebelling... What a topsy-turvy world we live in," he commented, chuckling darkly.

His familiarity didn't please her, nor did his ironic tone; Sansa tried to wriggle away from him, but he tightened his grip.

"I didn't rebel," she explained, furious. "I just didn't want to wiggle in front of him."

"Good. I don't give a shit about your dancing skills. Hold the jar for me, will you?"

With that, he put the ointment in her hand, grabbed her shoulders, made her turn around and began to button-down her dress.

"What are you doing?" she protested.

"I'm tending to your cuts, girl. Hold your dress."

One hand clutching to the front of her dress and the other one holding the small jar, she waited as he applied the ointment on her back. All this was nonsense: her Russian customer had seen the top of her back but he had decided to ignore it. Things were supposed to happen this way. Her customers paid to watch her dance until they could use her as a plaything, not to take care of her wounded back. _Or maybe it's a trick and it's worse than I thought. He tries to gain my confidence before hurting me. _His gesture was surprisingly more delicate and more careful than she expected, but she forbid herself to think about it.

When it was over, he buttoned up her dress. He fumbled with the buttons, whispering expletives right in her shoulder-blades. He pulled the flimsy fabric in such a way she thought he would tear it. _Good God, what is he doing? _He sighed deeply, then he went back to the armchair and extended his arm to pat the edge of the bed. She sat down, an interrogative look in her eyes. _His scars are less frightening than his behavior._

"You don't want me to dance?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"Frankly, I don't give a fuck about it."

Sansa felt slightly vexed by his remark and she stared at her hands resting in her lap, before raising her gaze to him. The Hound had ensconced himself in the large armchair, his legs open and one elbow digging into the armrest. For the first time since he had come in, she noticed an amount of details her fear had relegated to the background: his shoes needed a good polish and he wore a pair of woolen grey trousers with a matching waistcoat. He had rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt he didn't take the trouble to button up. From his clothes emanated a smell of light tobacco and whiskey that overcame the heady scent of leather. He was now observing her, his scars partly hidden by his long dark thin hair. _He most likely didn't cut his hair since his demobilization._

Suddenly, she realized the phonograph was silent and she stood up abruptly.

"I- I have to- If they don't hear music coming from my room..." she explained, hurrying to the phonograph.

When she turned around, after the brass wind of _Yes! We have no bananas!_ began to play, he was pushing himself from his seat.

"Do you have something to eat?"

Her eyes widened in surprise, as she watched him wrapping his left arm around one of the columns of the bed and leaning against it. His question left her speechless, until she remembered the box of chocolates her Russian customer had given her. Mimicking the movements of a caged bird, she came and went in the room, trying to remember where she had put the present brought by her previous guest. It was not on the console table, nor in the closet; she finally remembered she had put it away in the shelve above the desk and let out a sigh. The box came from a confectioner where her mother used to buy candied chestnuts for Christmas; the sight of the baby-blue ribbon and the coat of arms adorning the wrapping paper had been a shock for Sansa and she had decided to save the chocolates in order to savor them later.

"I have these sweets," she offered, holding out the box.

He took the box, opened it and shoved a chocolate candy in his mouth without further ado, before going back to his seat. She followed him after a while and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Did Joffrey send you?" she asked as he gobbled another chocolate.

"Fuck Joffrey," he mumbled.

"I thought you had come to... keep a close eye on me and make a report."

He snorted, then thrust his hand in the box of chocolates again.

"You don't want me to dance, you say you're not here to spy on me, so why did you come?" she asked again.

Her high-pitched voice revealed her exasperation; he looked straight in her eyes and, forgetting about the chocolates, he leaned forward so that his head was at arm's length of her knees.

"I'm your way out, girl."

He had uttered these words in such a way it sounded more like a threat. Sansa must have watched her with suspicion for he added soon after: "You don't trust me, do you?"

"You work for them", she replied. "I'm not very experienced but I've come to learn that most of the time, your loyalty lies with the person who pays you."

"Littlefinger gave you this beautiful room and this expensive dress you wear, but unless you have a vocation for fucking doddering old farts, you can't be loyal to him."

His mocking tone and his bad manners infuriated her. _Maybe he took it upon himself and came here to humiliate me without telling Joffrey. _The phonograph went silent again and she jumped at the chance to put some distance between her and the Hound. _Is it possible that he's sincere? No, don't be so naïve._

She chose _All by myself_ before realizing he could take it badly or just laugh at her.

_I'm so unhappy_

_What'll I do?_

_I long for somebody who_

_Will sympathize with me_

Slowly, almost reluctantly, she turned around to face the Hound and she found him so close behind her she could have bumped into him. Was his attitude threatening or did he leer at her? She couldn't decide and therefore she averted her eyes, feeling a sudden and unpleasant warmth on her cheeks.

"Is this life what you want?" he asked with rudeness. "Locked in this place among a bunch of sluts who are either stupid or mad, or maybe both... with men eyeballing you..."

He didn't seem to realize that he was himself ogling her. Sansa swallowed hard, eyes downcast, observing his shadow that engulfed her feet and her ankles.

"Look at me and tell me this is the life you want. Being their plaything and all that shit," he spat. "Are you so foolish you didn't understand what they're going to do to you?"

Sensing he was losing his temper, she raised her gaze and realized how serious his grey eyes had become.

"Why would you help me?" she whispered.

The Hound probably didn't expect her to ask him about his motivations for his self-confidence vanished and he shrugged like a little boy who didn't learn his lesson.

"I want to leave," he confessed. "Start a new life."

For the first time since he had passed the threshold, he looked ill-at-ease.

"And it's a fucking good deed," he added with a shrug.

"Will you... take me back to Minnesota?" she asked, hesitating.

"Minnesota is a very bad idea. The Lannisters have connections out there: they'll find you in no time at all, bring you back here... and they would kill me. We should go to Europe. South America, perhaps."

Thoughtfully, he shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the intricate pattern of the oriental rug at his feet.

"But how?" Sansa inquired. "I don't have anything."

_If he thinks I can pay his one-way ticket to Europe by selling my mother's jewels, he's wrong. _Cersei had made sure Sansa had nothing left except her own clothes.

"I know. I'll try to find enough money to buy tickets. That's the biggest problem. Until then, you play your part and I play mine."

His seriousness didn't disperse her doubts, though: leaning back against the small table where the phonograph had been placed, she felt the urge to question his offer again.

"How can I be sure you're not fooling me?"

Hands still in his pockets, he snorted and stepped forward so that when he turned slightly, his elbow nudged her arm in an attempt to make her react. Her back stiffened.

"How can I be sure you're not going to tell Baelish I plan to leave my employers but not before stealing from them, once I'll walk away?" he said in echo. "I'm taking more risks than you in this, girl. And I remember you're bad at keeping secrets."

His reproach felt like a stab and she bit her lip, wishing that the tears pooling in the corner of her eyes would not – not now – roll down her cheeks. Right after Robert's death, Sansa had been the first to draw Cersei's attention on her parents' suspicion and on their plan to go back to Saint Paul. She had confided in Cersei like a silly little girl who didn't want to leave the lifestyle she had in New York. _And three weeks later, they were dead._

_I'd love to rest my weary head on somebody's shoulder I hate to grow older_

_All by myself_

The last verse of the song invited her to trust him, but she remained silent.

"Very well," he said, "this is the life you want. I'm done here, girl."

"No," she replied. "When- When can we leave?"

"I don't know yet. This is the end of the song, little bird."

Turning around again, she replaced the 78 rpm, rolling her eyes. She hated that stupid nickname he had given her when she lived in the Red Mansion. _As derogatory as Joffrey's tone when he calls him 'Dog'._

"Show me that window," he ordered. "I have to know if we can use it."

He followed her on the balcony and he shook his head when he realized it was located on the facade.

"There's another balcony," she explained, leading him to the adjoining bathroom.

He whistled when he saw the claw-footed tub and the ornamental tiling, then he felt the silken fabric of her négligé hanging on a hook. _God, he's so rude._ She kept her chin up and showed him the other french window, much more narrow than the other one. He opened it and inspected the balcony overlooking the back-alley.

"This one is better," he commented. "You can sneak out this way."

"I'm scared of heights," she protested.

Leaning back against the window frame, he cursed, seemingly as exasperated by her manners as she was by his.

"Look at me," he rasped, his palms turned to the ceiling like two weighing scales. "Here is your fear of heights and here are the nights with dirty old men that await you. What do you choose?"

"Why are you so rude?"

The song's end exempted him from answering and he motioned her towards the bedroom with an incline of his head.

"We should stay here," he suggested, once they were standing by the phonograph."You're skinny. Do they give you enough food?"

She said yes, then picked another sleeve.

"Did they beat you? I mean this bastard, Littlefinger, and the blond whore ruling this place."

"No, they didn't."

"Are you sure?" he insisted. "You'd better tell me the truth."

"No, they didn't. The fat man beat me, that's all."

He laughed softly at her answer and it sounded contemptuous, almost saturnine.

"What happened, exactly?"

"I'm not sure I have a right to tell you," she answered.

Discretion about the customers was another of Peitho's advices. _A whore is like a doctor_, she had said. _You can't reveal the other people's secrets._

"You'd better tell me," he growled.

"I told you I refused to dance. I was crying and I didn't please him. So he took his belt and beat me."

She spoke with such a detachment one could have said it was not her story but someone else's.

"Did he took your maidenhood?"

"No, he didn't."

As he stayed silent for a while, she understood this information was what he precisely wanted. Why were men so obsessed with virginity, she couldn't tell. It seemed to her that men wanted to sleep with every woman and even paid for it, but the idea of maidenhood – how to make sure your daughter or sister keeps it, how to take it from a girl – drove them mad. This was absurd, as well.

The rest of the hour he had paid for went by almost silently, until she looked at the clock.

"It's over," she said coldly.

Without looking at her, he walked to the console table and put on his overcoat.

"Will you come back?" she asked, while he stood with his back to her.

She didn't really mean it: it was more some sort of curiosity, yet she couldn't take it back. He turned around and stared at her for a while, puzzled, weighing the pros and the cons. She wanted to add something, to tell him it didn't matter, but words were stuck in her throat. His expression was unreadable, but finally his grey eyes met hers.

"I'll come back soon. Now go to bed."

Sansa stood in his way but he stepped forward, imagining she would move aside so that he could reach the door; she stayed still and he stopped in front of her.

"What?" he growled.

She locked eyes with him.

"Your offer is not a lie or trick, is it?" she asked.

"No, it's not," he sighed.

She nodded and let her eyes fall away. Noticing the crease on his waistcoat, she mechanically tugged at the seam. It was nothing but the mindless gesture of a girl who liked to put things in order but she saw him stiffening. Not frowning or grumbling like he used to, but stiffening as if her touch made him uncomfortable. _Nobody has kind thoughts for him_, she realized and that idea aroused her compassion.

She moved aside and let him walk to the door.

"Go to bed, now," he insisted, glancing at her before leaving the bedroom.

The noise of the door closing behind him made her shiver. She was so tired she could have fallen asleep in ordinary circumstances, but this wasn't ordinary; disobeying, she ran to the balcony overlooking the street. She needed fresh air and the raw light of the street lamps to realize what had just happen was true.

Sansa heard a creaking noise below, then the front door slammed and she saw him getting out of the brothel and walking in the street. A vagrant went after the Hound but his long strides allowed him to outdistance the old man.

At the end of the street, he turned right and disappeared. She looked at the street, rather quiet in the first hours of the night. Later on, next morning, it would be crowded with passers-by. There would be children playing and screaming, but right now the street was hers, as the vagrant was huddled in some corner. She jumped at the soft knock she heard on the door, then she turned around: Peitho appeared on the threshold and joined her on the balcony. The madam, wearing a green taffeta dress, had sleepy eyes.

"I was worried," the Russian woman confessed, grabbing her lower arm. "This man scares me. I asked him if everything was all right when I met him downstairs. Do you know what he answered? He said _'The girl was docile'_ and he left. I thought American veterans were more... chivalrous."

"How do you know he's a veteran?" Sansa inquired.

"His horrible burns on his face, of course! And there's something about him-"

Sansa shook her head.

"It's true he fought in Europe, Peitho, but he didn't got his scars during the Great War."

"Oh really? I thought he was like these men French people call _'gueule cassée'_. There were so many men like him when I lived in Paris, at the end of the Great War. What's the English word for _'gueule cassée'_ by the way?"

Since she knew Sansa had learned French when she was in Saint Paul, Peitho always asked her that sort of questions.

"I've heard that expression once," Sansa answered, sighing deeply. "One of my brother's friends, a man we called the GreatJon used it... I don't think we have an equivalent in English. We simply say _'disfigured war veteran'_."

"How did he got his scars?" Peitho insisted, elbowing her in a familiar way.

"When he was a child, his older brother burnt his face."

"You know him well," the madam commented.

"No, not that much. He works for the Lannisters; that's how I met him. He's one of their henchmen."

That was how she would describe him, though it didn't satisfy her. Her guest kept a shadowy side she couldn't characterize, nor understand.

"So how was it?" Peitho asked. "He scared me when he said you had been docile."

_Be careful, now. _As kind as she was with her, the madam was sly and well-versed in falsehood; she could tell if someone was sincere or not. But Sansa's stay in the Red Mansion had taught her how to lie.

"As he said, I was docile," she explained. "I danced, that's all."

"Welcome in to Baelish's kingdom of absurd," Peitho commented. "This man is so weird... So he didn't hurt you?"

She shook her head. "He is frightening, that's true, but... I'm fine."

Peitho's gaze was full of concern.

"Poor child," she said. "Baelish will come tomorrow morning. I'll talk to him. Perhaps I have a plan for us. We're the same, you and I."

She hugged her and Sansa smelt a fragrance of bergamot and oakmoss. The madam usually drenched herself in perfumes.

"I'm going to take good care of you, you'll see," Peitho promised. "What's this smell?"

Peitho was sniffing, a suspicious look on her beautiful face.

"His smell, I guess," she sighed.

It was camphor; she hadn't noticed it when he had applied the ointment on her back, because she was so frightened, but now she was sure. Peitho shrugged and mumbled something about American men and hygiene.

"You love this balcony, right?" the woman suddenly asked, smiling at her.

_Not for the reasons you imagine._

"I'll talk to Baelish," she repeated. "He'll love my plan for us."

She left Sansa's room, the rustle of her skirts showing how thrilled she was.

* * *

At dawn, realizing she couldn't go back to sleep, Sansa got up and looked at the street again. Everything was silent, in the first hours of the day. A few hours ago, she had decided to leap into the void. Eyes closed, she listened to the calm, then opened her eyes again and gazed at the asphalt. _Thirty feet below. A quick death. Someday perhaps, but not now._ She wanted to know more about this man who had come to visit her. Before leaving the balcony, she noticed how the sky was red on the horizon and she suddenly remembered what her nanny told her when she was a child:

_Red sky at morning, sailors take warning;_

_Red sky at night, sailors' delight_

A storm was approaching. Sansa went back to her huge bed and huddled under the blankets. _Play your part and I'll play mine_, he had said.

* * *

Among his numerous habits – getting up at dawn, eating spare ribs for dinner, visiting a brothel once a week – there was one Gerald Halder especially loved. Every night, he would go to the warehouse filled with casks of spirits he possessed. There were some beer barrels too, though beer wasn't one of his specialties. The restaurant his father had left to him twenty-six years ago was thriving and allowed him to put money into what was the most profitable activity: selling alcohol.

Gerald Halder was proud to offer his customers the largest range of spirits one could find in New York, on his unofficial wine list: you could drink in the backroom of his restaurant that incredible Irish whiskey the Lannisters imported, Italian wines or moonshine coming from Tenessee, of course, like in every decent speakeasy, but what made him so proud were the rare alcohols he possessed and stored in his warehouse. You couldn't taste the spirits Norwegian and Ukrainian immigrants made in the bathtub of their insanitary one-bedroom flat of the Lower East Side – some beverages so strong they burned your throat and left a bitter aftertaste on your tongue – unless you bought them from Gerald Halder. _Every damn community seems to have its own recipe to distil strong and cheap alcoho_l, he thought, smiling a lopsided smile.

In Manhattan, as far as these strange and exotic homemade spirits were concerned, he had no serious rival. It didn't mean he had no worries, of course not. The war between the different bootleggers had devastated his trade: with an increased presence of the coastguards and the police operation Stannis Baratheon had carried out in New Jersey, getting imported whiskey was more and more uncertain. And there were the police officers: Gerald was sometimes ashamed to admit it was difficult to know which palm he could grease and which officers were useless. To top it all off, the New Yorkers were rather anxious about their future. _That is to say the workers, the clerks who lived from hand to mouth... The upper class, the businessmen have never been that rich and they were eager to live life to the full. _These rich customers were the ones Gerald Holder tried to seduce: they wanted to mix with the riffraff when they passed the threshold of his restaurant and booze was the secret ingredient of an unforgettable evening.

Despite the lacklustre context, he harbored the hope of better days with the coastguards' underachievement in New Jersey – they had seized a large part of the whiskey the Lannisters imported but their henchmen had managed to escape. The support of Mace Tyrell, the successful manufacturer of the South, to the Lannisters would certainly help: if the young Joffrey Baratheon became the next governor thanks to his father-in-law's support, Gerald doubted of the police's ability to enforce the Volstead Act.

Such a prospect made him smirk, as he moved his paunchy figure between the rows of barrels. Making more money meant indulge himself in going back to the brothel and seeing again that pretentious young lady who had refused to dance for him at first. The memory of her screams, when his belt had hit the smooth skin of her back was enough to make his cock harden. Next time he saw her, he wouldn't ask for a dance. _Oh no._

Above his head, rain drummed against the tin roof, but in the deserted warehouse, his footsteps echoed, amplifying his self-confidence. Joffrey Baratheon would soon dampen the zealous policemen's spirits and let people like him work in peace. And he would himself crush his rivals such as the Moore and the old Francis Tucket, those shitheads unable to tell gin from apple brandy: it was just a matter of time before he had them working for him and licking his boots.

In the quiet warehouse, he suddenly heard something: it didn't sound like a wind draft but like a rattle. There were mice sometimes and even rats, though he gave a bottle of cheap brandy for each dead rat or mouse his employees brought him. He went on, wanting to make sure everything was in order. A flashlight in his hand, he walked slowly, paying attention to the casks – the storm had damaged the electric lightning, plunging the warehouse into total darkness. He had enough Irish whiskey, but he was almost out of Italian wines and Joffrey Baratheon would demand some rare Italian wines if he got married...

The sound of a barrel rolling on the plain dirt floor made him jump._ What kind of mouse was it?_

"Emmett!" he shouted. "Is that you? Do you want to scare your boss to death, you scum bag?"

Gerald didn't get any answer, except from a gust of wind that lifted the metallic sheets above his head. He lifted his flashlight, getting closer to the barrel. The damn thing had stopped in the middle of a row, leaving a trail of red wine. _Sangiovese, most likely._ How could someone laugh at him and waste such a good wine?

"Who are you?" Gerald Halder growled. "Show me your face!"

His yell echoed under the tin roof but no answer came. The flashlight lit up the spot where Gerald stood, his chest heaving, but darkness engulfed the rest of the warehouse. Spinning on his heels, he frantically brandished his flashlight in all directions, but everything seemed quiet. He recorked the barrel and put it the right way round with a grunt, then he heard a cat meowing.

_That stupid animal. _There were alley cats hanging around these days. The cook, that old fool, had seen fit to leave some scraps for the cats and now it was almost impossible to get rid of them.

A black cat appeared in the reassuring circle of light: it was one these skinny animals that spent nights in the streets, fighting with its fellow creatures. One of its ears was torn-down but behind its long whiskers, Gerald could have sworn on his mother's life that it had a smug smile. When the damn beast came to rub itself against his legs, Gerald rewarded its affection with a kick. The cat hissed and ran away as Gerald walked briskly to the warehouse's door. He hated cats and he hated even more the sensation of playing to be scared.

_Fortunately, nobody saw me making a fool of myself... Everything seems perfectly quiet in this corner of the warehouse_, he mused, wiping the beads of sweat rolling down his temples. _It must be that storm raging outside that got on my nerves. _Gerald sighed deeply as he put his hand on the doorknob. _Everything is in order. Everything-_

An iron grip on his shoulder made him squeak, then a forceful arm thrust him out against the metallic door. Gerald grunted in pain, mechanically bringing his hands to his knee. As he lay on the ground, he felt the cold wind on his back. He had dropped his flashlight and whoever his assailant was, that bastard made sure Gerald couldn't reach the electric device. A deft kick sent the flashlight further and it ended up lighting the casks of Irish whiskey.

"Who are you?" he asked. "What do you want?"

A kick in his ribs answered to his question. Gerald screamed, his protestations echoing the howling wind.

"Jimmy, is that you?" he tried again, on a ragged breath. "I know I shouldn't have fired you, not like that, but I couldn't-"

A blow to the genitals cut him off. Despite the excruciating pain he felt and the sensation that he was about to shit his pants, Gerald shielded his face with his arm and raised his eyes nonetheless. He didn't really see his attacker in the darkness, but this huge, threatening figure was not Jimmy's. It couldn't be one of the men who held something against him either. _So who is he? I don't know that man. _The realization scared him even more.

"What do you want?" he begged.

The man remained silent but squatted in front of him, grabbed his chin and shoved a rag inside his mouth. Gerald tried to protest, shook his head and flailed but resistance was useless. Seemingly losing interest for his victim's face, the man grasped his ankle and dragged him towards the other end of the warehouse.

_Far from the door, somewhere nobody can hear my screams._


	2. Blush

**Chapter 2: Blush**

**Warning for xenophobic remarks.**

* * *

Silence stretched in Petyr Baelish's office.

Sansa slowly walked to the phonograph, trying to catch her breath then she lifted the tone arm; with careful, unhurried movements, she put the record back in its sleeve and placed it on the table nearby, allowing herself a last moment of peace before facing Baelish's verdict.

"Come here," he said, looking at her over steepled fingers.

At first, she didn't move, as if she was paralyzed; her feet so eager to move whenever there was a chance to dance a Foxtrot in Saint Paul, still nimble a minute before when she danced accompanied by Irving Berlin's music, now seemed glued to the polished wooden floor.

Sansa swallowed hard, made a tremendous effort and managed to step forward. In front of her, Baelish was sitting behind his mahogany desk, a piece of furniture of which pomposity struck the girl. The owner of the brothel almost disappeared behind it and Sansa thought for a while that, apart from his hands, all she could see of him was his head: a triangular face with his pointed beard, sly eyes hesitating between gray and green. His dark hair with strands of gray were carefully combed and slicked.

"That's elegant," he commented casually. "Don't you think so, Peitho?" He glanced at the blond madam who was sitting on a green upholstered fainting couch, on the left side of the office. "The problem, my dear, is that we don't do elegance."

Sansa sheepishly looked at her feet.

"I know it's not your fault," he added, standing up and walking around his desk. "I know you learned classical dancing when you were younger – which is an asset, I have been told – and I know your dearest mother would never allow you to have a questionable behavior when you danced in Saint Paul's balls. But this is not a ball."

He now stood in front of her, so close she could smell his cologne, a weird mix of tangerine and wood, supposed to be sophisticated. She also noticed she was a bit taller than him.

"You're not here to find a husband, but to find a lover. A great deal of lovers, in fact. That makes quite a difference. You realize how expensive you are? Your fee is extremely high for a girl who only dances. I did it on purpose, of course, but your customers want to get their money's worth. You understand me?"

He cupped her chin, but she avoided his gaze and nodded.

"Oh no!" Peitho exclaimed, her contralto voice saturated with exasperation. "She's blushing again!"

Sansa wasn't aware of her red cheeks before the Russian woman complained about it. She bit her lip as the madam got on her feet and rolled her hips towards them.

"Blushing is like sucking your thumb, girl," Peitho scolded her gently. "A nasty fault you need to get rid of."

Baelish cleared his throat.

"No, no, no. I don't agree. Men like girls who blush like that. It's- I don't know... What?"

Peitho burst out laughing, then stopped when she detected a hint of vexation in her boss' gaze.

"Does it mean you-" she began, brow furrowed.

The madam looked at Baelish, then at Sansa.

"I didn't know you liked girls who blush," she pointed out, her voice revealing how disturbed she was.

"Well, yes, I like it," he confessed.

The relationship between Peitho and Baelish was not secret – even Sansa had noticed it the day she had arrived – but the notion that Baelish liked things she couldn't give him apparently hurt his mistress. In moments of carelessness, the attitudes and the gestures Sansa had witnessed left little room for imagination: Peitho was undoubtedly brazen with her lover.

The blond madam glared at Baelish. _Is she mad at him or is it a trick she uses to test his affection for her?_ Sansa was confused. She couldn't tell if Peitho's annoyance was feigned or not, but she felt terribly uncomfortable all the same. _It's a nightmare. All this: Baelish's hoity-toity office, the dance they forced me to perform, that conversation. Nothing of this is real, except Irving Berlin's music._

However, the genius of her favorite composer couldn't save her from the awkward situation she was in: Baelish had just admitted he loved something that was at odds with Peitho's behavior, something Sansa had and now she wished she could hide away. As tension gradually filled the room, she closed her eyes and hoped that something – anything – would prevent their impending argument. _The candlestick phone on the desk, for instance. Why does nobody call Baelish right now?_

"Very well," the man said, a fake smile on his face. "These red cheeks are not the reason why you're here. The main issue is that dance you showed us. At some point, you made me feel as if I was a judge in some stupid dance contest... This is not a dance contest!"

Eager to show his authority – and perhaps because he wanted to prove Peitho he didn't fuss over Sansa – he had spoken loudly, excessively articulating the last words.

"You have to be far more daring, to become a good dancer," he added. "But... if you manage to be daring and to blush at the same time, you're going to-"

He hesitated for a while and Sansa glanced at him, wondering why he didn't finish his sentence. She saw him peering at Peitho before focusing on her again.

"You're going to make a lot of money."

_I don't even get a look at this money._ That was the deal: she danced, she smiled, Baelish provided room and board but he kept the money she earned.

"I'll do my best," Sansa offered, hoping that this promise would allow her to go back upstairs.

"I don't want you to try," he protested, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her slightly. "I want you to get better and to mesmerize your customers."

Sansa stepped back so that he let go of her. She ignored if Peitho had seen her reaction, but the madam's flute-like voice immediately resonated under the coffered ceiling.

"We're not done yet, Petyr. Sansa had a problem with her first customer. This awful man hit her. Turn around, girl, show him."

Wordlessly, Sansa obeyed, wishing she would not end up with her back bared in front of Baelish. _Having the Hound looking at me was humiliating enough._ Baelish scrutinized the top of her back for a short while.

"That's nothing," he commented. "It's already healing."

Sansa felt her fingers curl into tight fists. _Nothing? Pig beat me, he insulted me and he took pleasure in doing so. Even the Hound was shocked. Not any man, the Hound, a war veteran, a henchman..._

"Why did he beat you, dear?" Baelish asked her, a hint of suspicion lingering on his tone.

She spun on her heels, slowly, gathered her thoughts and finally met his gaze.

"I- I was afraid," she began, shamefaced. "He scared me."

Baelish grinned, shaking his head. _He knows I don't tell him the truth._

"I refused to dance," she stated. "It won't happen again, Sir. I swear."

Remaining silent, he crossed his arms across his chest, in an attempt to seem more important than he really was. Sansa choked back tears.

"How was it with her other customers?" he finally asked Peitho.

"Fine," she replied. "Honestly, I think her first customer scared Sansa to death. When I asked Berdokhovski, he said he was delighted, even if she was shy. And that man who came two days ago... What's his name?"

"The Hound," Sansa replied.

"The Hound?" Baelish exclaimed, laughing. "The Hound came to see you dancing? Since when does he go to brothels for another purpose than fucking girls?"

Sansa looked daggers at him, but he didn't notice it since he was facing Peitho.

"Maybe the Hound will buy some tickets for some ballet, next time!" Baelish added, laughing at his own joke. "Strange things happen, these days."

"What's that name? The Hound?" Peitho asked with her customary eagerness to understand American English.

"It's a nickname, darling. Hounds are... hunting dogs."

She nodded, whispering to herself _'Hound, hunting dog'_, like a little girl.

"What's his real name, then?" she suddenly asked Baelish.

"His real name is Sandor Clegane," Baelish sighed, "but we usually call him the Hound."

"I once knew a man whose name was Sandor," Peitho commented thoughtfully. "A Hungarian count I met in Paris. He was very good to me."

She took her blond braid between her thumb and forefinger and mindlessly stroked it.

"That's not the point," Baelish lectured his mistress. "Was he satisfied with Sansa's services?"

He turned to Peitho, ignoring Sansa as if he didn't trust her anymore; his behavior infuriated the girl.

"He liked it," Sansa answered defiantly.

Surprised, Baelish glanced at her.

"Petyr, she's telling you the truth. I asked him afterward and he told me she was docile. But it's so frightening for her," Peitho pleaded. "Alone in her bedroom with one man looking at her like that. It's dangerous."

Baelish raised one eyebrow.

"That's the plan, dear. What I sell to a customer comes to this: one hour spent with a beautiful girl who dances and dances only for him, next to this huge bed. The customer wants her – at least if Miss Stark agrees and makes efforts – and he has the illusion that they could end up in bed."

_I'm nothing more than a piece of meat, for him._ The tears pooled again at the corner of her eyes and she had to breathe slowly to get rid of them.

"Sansa would feel so much better if she had an audience instead of being locked up with one man," Peitho explained, coming closer and wrapping her hand around the girl's waist. "I think this young lady is not daring enough because it's much more frightening to face one man's eyes. She fears to be hit again. If she danced on a stage, before dozens of men, it would be different."

As tall as Sansa, the blond madam leaned her forehead against the girl's temple in a cuddly gesture. Then, tightening her grip, she rested her head in the crook of Sansa's neck and cast a glance at Baelish. _God, what is she doing?_

"You said she's gifted, Petyr," Peitho added, brushing Sansa's side. "She can sing and dance and so can I. And we have girls here who can dance too. We have that meeting hall nobody uses. We could prepare a show and invite a lot of people."

Letting go of Sansa, she walked to Baelish and put her hand on his chest. A bold smile on her lips, she ducked her head to kiss his cheek. By the way he sighed deeply, Sansa could tell he enjoyed his mistress' touch.

"Sansa and I could sing and dance for them and the other girls would... entertain them, I suppose."

Peitho's hand slid down Baelish's chest inch by inch, stopping waist-high, then she glanced around her shoulder and smiled at Sansa, biting her lip.

"What do you think, child?"

"I- I suppose it would be... great," Sansa stammered, averting her eyes.

She nonetheless understood that Peitho was nibbling at her lover's neck. _Disgusting._

"Petyr, do you like my idea?" the blond woman asked in a lascivious tone.

"I have to think about it."

As he stared insistently at Sansa while Peitho resumed her ministrations, the girl felt more and more uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I- I'll be in my room."

She turned around and walked to the door, but she couldn't help hearing their voices as she was on the threshold of the office.

"Was she blushing again?" Peitho asked, her back to Sansa.

"Of course she was!" Baelish replied, laughing.

Closing her eyes, she shut the door behind her, leaned her back against it and allowed herself to take a deep breath once she was in the corridor. _This is a nightmare, even if Baelish agrees with Peitho's plan. Only one person offered to help me leave this awful place and it had to be the Hound. Why does the only man who pities me so rude and stubborn and..._

She opened her eyes and felt even more ill-at-ease than she was inside the office. Five pairs of eyes looked hard at her: a representative sample of the girls living and working in the brothel was watching her as Sansa reflected on her situation. _My life unravels and they can see it._

Putting on a brave face, Sansa began to observe her companions. The tall, chesty dark-haired girl was Viola; Sansa knew that Viola didn't like her, but she had not figured out why they should be enemies. The two fair-haired women were a bit older and they were sisters. She remembered their names were Dorothy and Lois, though she couldn't tell the difference between them. The chubby woman who was always grinning went by the name of Jo and the little one with almond-shaped eyes and brown hair was Meg, a girl of eighteen.

"What do you want?" Sansa asked them.

"Hush," Viola ordered, "get out, stuck up little girl."

Pushing Sansa out of her way, she leaned against the door and pricked up her ears.

"We're listening to their conversation," Meg explained, with a smile. "Want to stay?"

Sansa hesitated; it was something rude, something her mother wouldn't approve and after the unpleasant discussion with Baelish, she only wanted to hide away in her room and to forget about the rest of the world; still a little voice told her her life would be a bit less difficult if she made friends with the other persons living in the brothel. She looked at the girls gathered in front of the door and she stood shyly by Meg, avoiding Viola's angry gaze.

Behind the door, Baelish seemed reluctant and countered Peitho's arguments one by one; organizing a show in the brothel would be expensive and it could be a failure. Who would pay if nobody came to see the girls? According to him, the girls themselves were a problem: he acknowledged Peitho and Sansa's talent, but he questioned the other girls' ability to dance.

"That fat cow of Josephine, do you really picture her on a stage?" he asked his mistress.

On the other side of the door, Jo fumed, to the blond sisters' great pleasure. Viola shushed them all.

"Jo has always customers, which means men like her," Peitho protested. "She can sit with our customers and entertain them during the show. That's not the issue."

"What about the other ones? Edna, for example. Or Mary? Even Viola-"

When she heard her name, the tall brunette stiffened.

"Viola makes a lot of money, but did you look at her? She's... common, Peitho. Very common. She's useless on a stage."

"I've heard enough," Viola hissed and she abruptly left the girls.

The blond sisters repressed a chuckle, then they all tried to listen to the conversation inside the office.

"Can you hear something?" Jo whispered, leaning her big head against the door.

Sansa didn't detect any sound except muffled voices. _Did they realize we're listening to them? _She stepped back immediately, ready to run upstairs if Baelish stormed out of his office, but nothing happened. Meg's eyes suddenly widened then the blond sisters chuckled again and they began to make faces. Jo leaned back against the door and mimicked a woman who was fainting. _Oh no, not fainting_, Sansa realized.

As the four girls repressed a hysterical laughter, doubled up, Sansa looked at them. _They seem so free, so careless._ Jo gave the signal and they all walked back to the stairs.

"Tell us, Miss Sansa, are you shocked?" Jo provocatively asked her. "That's why couches are made for. Fucking!"

"Look at her, she's blushing again," Dorothy said – or maybe it was Lois.

"We should call you 'Blush'," Jo went on, patting Sansa's shoulder. "A perfect name for you."

They climbed the flight of stairs wordlessly; on the landing, Viola was waiting for them, tight-lipped. She stared at them for a while, before announcing:

"I'm tired of this place. I can't stand that stupid Russian woman with a stupid Russian name."

"Peitho is not a Russian name," Sansa said, thinking out loud.

They all turned to her and Viola folded her arms.

"I'm sorry, Miss," she began, looking daggers at Sansa. "I'm not sure I understood what you mean. She's Russian, she has a Russian name."

"No, it's not Russian."

Surprised by her own boldness, Sansa swallowed painfully, trying to held Viola's gaze.

"It's a Greek name. Peitho is... a goddess. She embodies persuasion."

A lesson which had been so difficult to learn when she was fifteen because she had no particular interest in Mythology had popped up in her mind. _So abruptly, because now that name, 'Peitho' means something to me._

Jo whistled, expressing her admiration. _Or perhaps irony._

"I suppose Peitho chose that name because she's good at convincing people," Sansa added, feeling the urge to say something. "That's what she was doing with Baelish. Convincing him... one way or the other."

Now she had the impression that she had trapped herself.

"Look at her," Viola spat. "A perfect Miss Know-it-all! Do you think your good manners and your... Greek lessons will save you the day Baelish sells your maidenhood? You think you're better because you grew up in a pretty house, but you'll end up on your back all the same. You're just a collection of holes, like the rest of us."

Her chest heaving, Viola turned around and ran to her room. When she finally dared to look at the other girls, Sansa read disapprobation in Jo's eyes, as well as in the blond sisters'.

"I never said I was better than you," she offered, "never even thought I was."

A distrustful silence welcomed her words and the three of them walked away. Meg's hand brushed Sansa's forearm.

"Don't worry. They're always like that when a new girl arrives."

"Why is Viola so angry at me?" Sansa asked.

"Can we go to your room? I promise I'll tell you."

Meg's almond-shaped eyes were full of interest. Sansa nodded: at least, there was a person in this awful place who didn't hate her or find her useless. Meg close on her heels, Sansa walked to the second door on the landing then she stepped aside to let her guest come in first. As soon as Sansa closed the door, Meg marveled at the beautiful bedroom.

"What a large room!" she exclaimed. "And the furniture... it's so..."

_So attention-getting._ There had been a time when the conspicuous consumption she saw in the Red Mansion fascinated her, as well. This enthrallment might have been strong – as powerful and as destructive as her illusions – but it had disappeared bit by bit, as the creases on her father's forehead deepened.

Unaware of Sansa's bitter thoughts, the brown-haired girl seemed bewildered; she went from the four-poster bed to the console table, from the large closet to the balcony. She finally glanced at Sansa, waiting for her approval before opening the bathroom door.

"Oh, God, you have your own bathroom! With a real bathtub... So Edna was right-"

"What did Edna say?" Sansa inquired.

"She said the plumbers and the workers who came here had completely transformed the room. God, it's so beautiful. I love this cheval mirror! And you even have a phonograph."

Sansa sat on the edge of the bed as Meg mechanically brushed the copper-colored surface of the horn; then, changing her mind, she walked to the big leather armchair and collapsed on it. At the sight of her slender form sprawled on the huge armchair, Sansa giggled.

"You promised you would tell me why Viola is so angry with me," she told Meg.

Meg sat up and showed the room in a sweeping gesture.

"I'm sorry Meg, I don't get it," Sansa whispered.

"This room is the reason why she doesn't like you. Viola lived here before; she slept and she welcomed her customers here. Littlefinger gave her another room – smaller, of course – and prepared everything before your arrival."

There was a word the Hound had forgotten when he had described Sansa's companions. _Jealous. I don't know if they're stupid or mad, like he said, but they're jealous. And Baelish knew Joffrey wanted to get rid of me weeks before I was told._

"I understand why Viola is so furious," Sansa thoughtfully commented. "But I never wanted to live here. I wanted to go back home. North."

But here you are," Meg replied, smiling encouragingly. "You'd better get used to Viola's insults because she is... resentful, you see? God, you live like a princess here... You know, life is not unpleasant in this house, but you have to respect the rules. Peitho is the queen: she rules the place, everyone obeys her. Then, they are the noble ones, the girls who make a lot of money: Viola, you, Mary, Edna. Sometimes the noble ones fight with each other, but in the end, the queen judges. So far, I think Peitho likes you, so she'll protect you."

"What about you? Are you some 'noble lady'?"

"Certainly not! I'm- I'm a... peasant, like Jo, like most of the girls. We work hard and the brothel wouldn't exist without us. But the likes of you make much more money."

"And Baelish, who is he?" Sansa asked again. "The king?"

Meg shook her head.

"No, he's not the king. He's far above Peitho. Let's say he's God. He has the right to life and death on us."

Sansa remained silent for a while, pondering on Meg's words and staring at her hands folded in her lap. When she raised her gaze again, Meg was looking at the box of chocolates the Russian man had brought with him.

"I would gladly give you some, but my last customer ate everything," she explained. "He didn't left a single chocolate candy."

She had forgotten about the box after the Hound was gone and she had only thought of it the next morning, when she tidied her room. Lifting the bow lid, she had discovered it was empty. _How can he be so rude, so selfish? He didn't even offered me one._ She couldn't stand his manners. Everything about him infuriated her: the way he laughed at her, the way he ate her food or looked at her as if... _As if what?_

Meg cleared her voice, and Sansa quickly wipe the Hound out of her mind.

"What do you want to do, Sansa?" the brown-haired girl asked her.

"I'll have to find today's newspaper. It must be somewhere downstairs. Please wait for me. I'll bring it back here and you will tell me where you are from."

She ran downstairs then knocked at Baelish's office, but not before checking if Peitho had left him – the madam was giving orders for the supper in the kitchen. She asked for the newspaper and Baelish gave her the last edition of the New York Times, even if he didn't understand why she demanded it everyday.

Once in her room, she sat down on her bed and opened the newspaper, without paying much attention to Meg who stared at the ceiling.

"What are you looking for?"

Meg's sounded slightly bored and Sansa felt the need to explain herself if she didn't want to look like a bluestocking.

"My father told me once the New York Times' motto was 'All the news that's fit to print'. I don't have any news from my brother. If something happens to him, his name will be here, somewhere. He has a hydroelectric power-plant in Minnesota: I believe his death would be fit to print."

As Sansa's eyes fluttered about, searching Robb's name in the articles, Meg left the big armchair and sat down next to her.

"You think your brother could be murdered?" Meg inquired.

Sansa forgot about the newspaper for a second and locked eyes with her.

"I thought I would be happy in this city, discovering a new world. I thought my parents would be by my side forever. And now they're dead."

"Murdered?"

Sansa didn't feel strong enough to utter a word and simply nodded. Meg patted her shoulder gently.

"Let me have a look, if you want," the girl offered. "Give me some of the pages and I'll help you."

Sansa shared the pages with Meg and she resumed her reading. _Nothing in the section dedicated to economics, nothing in..._

"Oh, this is so weird!" Meg nearly shouted.

Startled, Sansa sat up immediately.

"No, I swear it's not your brother," Meg reassured her. "It's a crime... My goodness..."

"What?"

"The man who was murdered," Meg replied, "you know him. He's one of your customers."

_No, don't tell me the Hound died in some back alley. I need him to escape... _Sansa might have complained about him only minutes ago, the Hound had offered her his help: his bad manners didn't really matter as long as he kept his promise.

"Which one?" Sansa asked curtly.

"The first one. Gerald Halder. The one who owns a restaurant. Who owned, I should say."

_Pig? _Pig had hit her, but it was strange to learn that he was dead now. Sansa couldn't say she was relieved, but she certainly didn't feel much compassion.

"Listen to this," Meg went on. "_'In the warehouse where the victim illegally stored wine barrels and casks of whiskey, the investigators found a red puddle...'_"

Glancing at Sansa, she looked like a little girl who pretended to be scared.

"_'...but it was not some vintage wine from Italy. The victim laid in a pool of blood, probably beaten to death. A source familiar with the case claims that it could be a score-settling in the merciless war between the bootleggers.'_ Frightening, don't you think so?"

Sansa nodded and took the page from Meg's hands. _'Indescribable violence'_, _'deep wounds'_, _'the victim's face was beyond recognition'_ were the words that struck her. She suddenly realized the man who had beaten her back had suffered a horrible death and a sort of queasiness took hold of her.

She went back to the other pages of the New York Times, trying to forget the scene her imagination had begun to recreate. Pig was dead, which means she would never face him again, and Robb's name was nowhere to be found. _So he was safe and sound when they published this edition._ That was the most important.

* * *

After Meg had told her she came from a village located in Pennsylvania and hoped to make a lot of money before starting a new life, maybe with one of her customers who came to visit her once in a week, Sansa decided that she was not the only one who harbored illusions. _At least, I've lost some of mine._ Still, she didn't know what to think about the Hound's offer. If she began to trust him for real and he betrayed her, how would she get over?

As much as she needed to confide in someone, she refused to open her heart to Meg; she barely knew her and the girl's talk about Sansa's bedroom suggested that she was too fascinated by riches not to be corruptible. _If Baelish asks her about me, she'll say everything for a new dress or a fur-lined coat._

Meg cast an envious look to the extravagant furniture before opening the door.

"You can come back anytime," Sansa said, eager to get on well with at least one girl.

"I will come back, you bet!"

From the place where she was standing, Sansa could see a part of the large wooden staircase, through the open door. A red-haired girl was slowly dusting down the baluster and the handrail; at first, Sansa wondered why she was moving so unhurriedly, but when the girl reached the landing, she had a better view of her figure and understood. _She's pregnant._ A pregnant woman seemed completely incongruous in a place like the brothel.

Meg noticed her incredulous gaze, for she glanced around her shoulder.

"Who's that girl?" Sansa asked.

"Evie. She's a whore, too. She's in disgrace. Guess why."

Meg's insensitivity hurt Sansa. The red-haired girl kept cleaning the staircase and when she caught sight of Sansa, she smiled at her.

"Tell me she's not working as... a prostitute," Sansa whispered.

"Not anymore. But she still had customers a few weeks ago. She's mute," Meg whispered, with a knowing smile. "Seems that some men like that."

Sansa frowned, shocked by Meg's coldness and disturbed by the sight of this young woman with a round belly, working hard only weeks before the childbirth.

"You know she used to be one of your customers' steady?" Meg added, her almond-shaped eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Who? The dead one?"

Sansa's voice sounded more detached than she really was; she felt difficult not to focus on the red-haired girl. _She seems so young. Probably twenty or twenty-one._

"The scary one. That man who works for the Lannisters."

"The Hound?" Sansa whispered, frowning in disbelief.

"Hmm-hmm. He visited her once a week and one day, he disappeared."

Sansa was puzzled. The day she had been propelled in the shady world of the brothel, her life had been turned upside-down. The way she envisioned the relationships between men and women had changed dramatically. The myth of the charming prince was like a chipboard dungeon she had fancied during her childhood: the first months of her engagement with Joffrey had breached the tower and the shock of her new life in the brothel had crumbled it. Trampling these ruins and laughing at her, the men she had met during the last week all seemed pathetic and vile. Yet, she didn't know them outside of the brothel, she could imagine there were horrible men who behaved badly and visited whores, while most of the men avoided places like Baelish's house.

Perhaps the Hound's visit had disturbed her because she knew him before, because he was a familiar figure of her old life. Before her parents' death, she had heard of prostitutes; however, she thought only gangsters paid for their services. She shouldn't have been shocked to learn that the Hound frequented whores – that looked very much like the rude, violent Hound she had met in the Red Mansion – but meeting the girl he spent his nights with was something completely different.

Forgetting about Meg, Sansa walked to the staircase and called the red-haired girl.

"Evie? Your name's Evie, right? Can I talk to you?"

Evie was surprised; she looked back at Sansa, hesitating.

"It won't be long and I will cover for you, if need be," Sansa said, smiling reassuringly.

"She's mute, she can't talk to you," Meg warned her with a hint of skepticism.

Sansa shrugged and smiled again at Evie, then led her to her bedroom. If the red-haired girl was fascinated by the embellishment, she didn't show it. She shyly sat down on the edge of the bed, smoothing her cheap woolen dress and her apron. When Sansa glimpsed at her hands' skin – reddened and scraped by places – she felt ashamed for spending her days waiting for her next customer in a bedroom while Evie scrubbed floors. She nonetheless smiled again at her guest and walked to the closet. There was this fuzzy blanket she could give the red-haired girl; Sansa wouldn't miss it and it felt good to do something generous. _A change after days locked in my room, lamenting about my fate._

"This is for your child," Sansa said, holding out the folded blanket. "It won't be long, now."

Evie's eyes widened and she nodded gratefully, then she opened her mouth and tried to articulate something. Sansa understood it was '_Thank you'_ and she sat down next to the girl. She had thousands of questions churning in her head and none was easy to ask. Deciding she had nothing to lose, she took the plunge.

"Meg told me you know a man people call the Hound," she began, trying not to stammer. "He used to come here and visit you?"

Evie nodded.

"Is he- is he your child's father? Oh, my God, I'm sorry. This is so embarrassing!"

As Sansa hid her face in her hands, she felt Evie's fingers on her wrists; the girl gently took her hands in hers and put them on Sansa's lap. When she dared to lock eyes with her, the mix of amusement and tenderness in Evie's gaze struck her. The young woman finally shook her head, slowly and insistently.

"He's not the father?"

Evie mimicked the gesture of a person who throws something behind his shoulder, as if the Hound's visits had happened ages ago. _But do I really understand what she means?_ Then, always smiling, she pointed at Sansa.

"What?" she asked. "Yes he came to visit me. I- I danced for him."

Evie's knowing look surprised Sansa. _How could she know? _The young woman shifted slightly and gestured with her right hand, using it as a puppet. Sansa watched her, trying to understand. Evie's fingers opened and curled in the air, like the mouth of an animal.

"A dog?" Sansa suggested. "Do you mean the Hound?"

Evie nodded and let her eyes fall on her lap for a second, gathering her thoughts. She curled and opened her fingers again, then touched her mouth.

"The Hound said..."

The young woman sitting by her side shook her head.

"He spoke? He told you something? What did he tell you?"

Evie didn't seem to agree with Sansa's interpretation and looked more and more frustrated. _People must think she's deaf or take her for a retarded person because she can't talk. It's so unfair._ Evie resumed her gesturing, in a desperate attempt.

"The Hound... told..."

She pointed at Sansa.

"He told you about me?"

Evie gave her a defeated look.

"I'm sorry, Evie. I'm sure we'll find a way-"

The young woman nodded shyly and took the blanket in her hands, a poor smile on her face. She pointed at the door, as if she wanted to say she had to go and to finish her chores.

"I really hope we'll find a way-" Sansa began tentatively.

Evie had almost reached the door and she held the blanket tight against her chest; turning around, she smiled and nodded. _Yes, we'll find a way._

The information the red-haired woman so eagerly wanted to tell her disturbed Sansa. _Why would the Hound talk to her about me? _It didn't make sense and Evie had vehemently shaken her head at that idea. _So what did she mean?_

After her encounter with Evie, she spent most of the afternoon on her balcony, looking at the street. _Like some princess locked inside her tower_, she mused. _Waiting for someone who has nothing to do with a knight. Scared by the dragon that could devour or consume me. I'm such a fool, sometimes._

She came back in her room as Peitho's voice echoed in the staircase. She rushed out of her room and came face to face with the tall blond-haired woman.

"I've changed my mind," she told Sansa. "I know I told you you didn't need to drink it, but..."

Peitho didn't finish her sentence and Sansa read it as a sign of embarrassment. She nonetheless shut the door and followed the blond woman. The madam stopped by the flight of stairs and called the girls whose rooms were on the third and fourth stories.

"Moontea-time, girls! I want everybody in the hall. Quick!" Then she turned to Sansa and motioned her downstairs.

Some of the girls were already waiting in the hall; Viola glared at Sansa and most of Baelish's employees ignored her. She finally joined Meg.

"You had an interesting conversation with the mute?" she asked Sansa.

Her voice exuded irony and Meg didn't make the slightest effort to hide it.

"Well, she's nice," Sansa replied. "What is it?"

With an incline of her head, Sansa showed the large pot the cook had put on a table. Docilely, the girls walked in single file and took the cup filled with a steamy beverage the cook gave them.

"Peitho calls it Moontea. It prevents pregnancy, she says," Meg explained. "After the mute got knocked up, she freaked out and she decided we should all take this. Must be Russian."

"Russian shit," someone spat behind them.

"You're blushing again," Meg commented, nudging at Sansa.

Before she could realize what was happening, Sansa was in front of the cook – an old woman with a wrinkled face – who gave her a cup of the hot beverage. She looked at the yellowish water and walked to Peitho.

"Listen, I don't really need it," she told the blond woman. "As long as I don't- I mean as long as I only dance-"

The madam crossed her arms about her chest and sighed, before looking at Sansa straight in the eyes.

"Don't worry, child. That's just in case."

What Peitho's words suggested was so frightening, Sansa mechanically raised the cup to her lips and drank the bitter potion it contained. _Just in case._

"Good girl," she heard Peitho say and she felt a hand patting her shoulder.

She wasn't strong enough to stomach Peitho's revelation; the thought that she might actually need some abortive beverage made her sick, so she put the cup on a tray provided and ran upstairs, far from the other girls' wry smiles.

* * *

**I know moontea is part of GRRM's world in ASOIAF, and rather incongruous in a modern AU, but I couldn't resist...**

**To SanSan lover: Thank you! I'm a bit obsessive with details, so I'm glad you like them. I'll try to post once a week.**

**To Anonymous: I really appreciate your feedback. Reviews like yours are precious when you have a hard time writing something – which is my case this week! I made some 'research' before writing this chapter and it's good to read that you noticed it...May I suggest that you create an account on this site so I can answer you directly? Hope you enjoyed this chapter.**


	3. Red morocco binding

**Chapter 3 : Red Morocco Binding**

**Warning for foul language, violence against women and non con.**

* * *

_No, I'm not nervous. It must be because I lack sleep. Or because of this stupid potion Peitho gives us: I'm pretty sure it has aftereffects. Why would I be nervous?_

"Are you alright, girl?" the Hound rasped, making her jump.

As she held the tone arm at this moment, the needle accidentally hurt the shellac surface of the record, causing a disharmonious sound. _Hope I didn't scratch it..._

Sucking in a deep breath, she spun on her heels and smiled cheerfully to her guest. It was worse than admitting that something actually disturbed her: he knew her smile was fake and he immediately pushed himself from the armchair, brow furrowed, then crossed the room.

"No," he whispered to himself, "not like that."

Sansa stood still, leaning against the table where the Kettelblack brothers had put Eddard's phonograph the day she had arrived in Baelish's brothel, her hands enjoying the comforting vibrations of _Do It Again_. She thought a piece by George Gershwin would help her calm down – even if she was _not_ nervous – but the Hound's looming presence crushed her hopes. Tension had filled the room when he came in, only minutes ago, and all her efforts to settle down had been less successful than expected.

He motioned her to the side with an incline of his head. _People talk to each other when they want something. Gentlemen politely ask permission. He stays silent and he only gestures_, she complained to herself, moving aside nonetheless. Whether the Hound noticed her narrowed eyes or not, she couldn't say and she thought he probably didn't care. He unplugged the phonograph, lifted the device as if it was as light as a feather and turned to her.

"Hold it," he ordered, before putting the big phonograph in her hands.

She managed not to drop it on the rug despite the weight – her left knee securing the phonograph's precarious position – and she watched him carrying the solid wood table across the room. He stopped near the French window and placed the table there, before going back to Sansa. The expression on her face made him chuckle and he unburdened her wordlessly.

"Be careful," she begged. "It was my father's."

"It could be the pope's, Little Bird, I don't care. Your phonograph will be better here."

Even though she feared for the only possession Eddard had left her, the phonograph found its place by the French window and the Hound plugged it. Gershwin's music filled the room again as he triumphantly turned to her.

"This way you won't have to cross the room every time-"

"I didn't mind crossing the room," she countered. "I loved the way things were before. And the table feet left marks on the carpet."

He smiled a twitched half-smile, his scarred cheek unmoving while the right side came to life.

"Marks on the carpet," he snorted. "How scandalous."

He stared at her, shoving his hands in his pockets and enjoying her futile attempts to calm down. For a second, she wondered if her pointless anger put him in a good mood or if he was leering at her. None of these options reassured the girl. She was nervous, she couldn't help it and she didn't know why.

"I've got something for you," he said, walking to the console table.

When he moved past her, she smelt his scent – tobacco, whiskey, sweat – at odds with Berdokhovski's Cologne. At least her Russian customer was a man of taste. The Hound took a parcel he had kept in his overcoat and he brought it to her. She took in the newsprint wrapping tied with a string and muttered her thanks.

"Go ahead," he whispered, encouraging her to open it.

As she unwrapped the parcel, Sansa watched him out of the corner of her eyes. Even if he stood in front of her, he pretended to ignore the girl, his head turned to the French window as if he tried to catch a glimpse at something across the street, despite the darkness. _His turn to be nervous_, she thought, and with that realization, all the anger and unease she had experienced since his arrival vanished.

Under her deft fingers, she felt the binding of three books well before seeing the red morocco. She smiled with anticipation at the smooth surface dyed in crimson but the sight of a roaring lion's motive on the spine made her gasp._ I've seen these books before. I know where they come from._

Showing the golden lion on the spine of the first book, she gave him an inquiring look.

"What?" he said, shrugging. "They don't read those books, anyhow. You did."

"You stole books from Cersei's library?"

"You think she will miss them? No she won't. You need them more than her, girl. If you try to make friends with the whores living here, they'll stuff your head with foolish ideas. You'd better stay in here and read."

She suddenly imagined the Hound walking to Cersei's library, on the _piano nobile_ of the Red Mansion, watching the bookshelves with a puzzled look and trying to figure out what books Sansa might like to read. In the end, she guessed he had chosen at random – there was a novel by Henry James, a book of poetry and the first volume of a _History of Navigation_. He would probably give her some far-fetched arguments if she asked him why he had settled on these books – the novel was a doorstop so she would have something to read for days, he was convinced a dainty girl like her would love poetry and had not realized the book contained only religious poems of the Elizabethan era and the _History of Navigation_ was supposed to perfect her education even if she didn't give a damn about boats – but she found his attention so adorable she couldn't help smiling.

"That's- that's very kind," she said, trying to lock eyes with him.

He avoided her gaze, for a change, and he shrugged. When she stepped forward, tentatively cupped his good cheek and put a shy kiss on it, he didn't move but he stiffened so abruptly she regretted it at once. She stayed on tip-toe for a few seconds, peering at him. The gray eyes challenged her. On her lips, she still had the sensation of his five o'clock shadow, that same beard that itched her fingers, and his scent was stronger when she stood in front of him, making her feel dizzy. At some point, she completely forgot why she was standing there, trying to put a kiss on his cheek and she recoiled suddenly, as if she had just did something inappropriate.

Stepping back, she bumped into one of the bed's column, saw the red morocco bindings on the console table and remembered. _He offered me books. Stolen books, maybe, but he did it for me._ She had received many gifts since her arrival: Baelish had offered her dresses and this huge bedroom, Berdokhovski had brought her chocolates and roses.

_God, it was so different from this._

The day Berdokhovski had come back, Sansa had heard his voice – or his laughter – in the staircase, long before he knocked to her door; he was talking with Peitho, in English first, then in Russian. By the warm lilt of their voices, Sansa had understood they were chatting like two old friends and when she opened the door, Berdokhovski had extended his arms as if he wanted to hug her.

"My sweet sister!" he had exclaimed, grinning.

At that moment, Sansa decided that he deserved a nickname – less cruel than Pig's, but a nickname all the same – and _Sweet Sister_, because it was at odds with his manly appearance and the varnish of respectability he tried to keep, would be perfect for him.

Not that the man was ugly or unpleasant; on the contrary, everything about him was a bit too much. Berdokhovski was rather handsome with his icy blue eyes and blond hair with strands of white; tall and slender for a man in his forties, he was well-dressed. He smiled a lot, talked a lot, was never shy about flattering Sansa. The expensive box of candies he had brought on his first visit and the pink roses he gave her that day suggested he would shower Sansa with gifts if he became a regular customer.

Now that she thought about him again, she knew she couldn't be unfair with him: he did his best to make her feel comfortable. Berdokhovski even ventured on joking though her lack of reaction, it must have frustrated him. When she began to dance, he smiled at her, but it never was with the perverse look Pig had given Sansa. It was a rather warm smile that didn't make her feel out-of-place. He applauded, praised her beauty and her talent, said he had never met someone like her. Before leaving her, he confessed she had changed since his first visit: she was more confident, more expressive and he liked that.

In fact, Berdokhovski's second visit was a bit too easy, as if Sansa was meant to receive men in her bedroom and to dance in front of them. Afterward, once he was gone, she thought his presence didn't really bother her, and she even smiled when remembering his compliments. Feeling better, she walked to the phonograph, ready to listen some cheerful tune, and froze when she picked a record at random: she had come across Allegri's _Miserere_._ Father. Mother. How would they react if they knew I danced for him and almost liked it?_

She looked at the pink cabbage roses, blossoming in a vase and filling the bedroom with a rich scent.

Baelish and her Russian customer wanted to spoil her – or so they said. One – Baelish – had given her what she needed to be a good, profitable dancer; the other one had tried to coax her with expensive sweets and a gorgeous bunch of flowers. The chocolates had been eaten and the roses would be wilted the day after. Berdokhovski's attentions, as lovely as they were, revealed what he saw in her: a kept-woman, who could be bribed with clothes and jewels.

The Hound wanted her to stay the girl he had met on the platform of Grand Central Station, on a warm afternoon of May; a girl who had dreams and who sheltered herself in books when life was disappointing. _God knows he laughed at me for reading romance novels but somehow he came to accept it. He stole these books to please me, to protect me from the things I see and hear in this place._ She felt grateful and moved at the same time.

"Will you read the books?" the Hound tentatively asked.

"Of course I will. I'm touched, really."

"Such a perfect lady," he sneered at her.

His bad manners came back, arousing her own exasperation. She thought of some cutting remark she could use to humiliate him, then gave up._ Maybe that's what he wants. He loves it when I'm angry._

"If I _finish_ these books before we leave, I'll tell you which ones you should steal from Cersei's library," she said quietly.

Her reaction surprised him so much he didn't answer anything and he laughed. It was just a chuckle at first, something she thought he could easily repress, then it turned into a roar drowning out Gershwin's music. Sansa hoped the house's inhabitants didn't hear it through the door.

"Do you really mean what you say, Little Bird?" he asked, still convulsed with laughter.

"Yes, I mean it. If you think Cersei won't miss these books."

Regaining his composure, he pointed at the phonograph. _Can't he talk instead of pointing at things?_ Rolling her eyes, Sansa unhurriedly crossed the room and placed another record on the turntable. When she spun on her heels, she found him right behind her, and jumped again. She had not heard his steps on the rug nor felt his presence. He looked a bit sheepish, now. Trying to put as much space as she could between herself and him, she leaned against the table he had carried effortlessly minutes ago, and she almost sat on the edge.

"How is your back, today?" he inquired.

If someone had asked her what the stormy gray eyes expressed at that very moment, Sansa would have answered 'concern'. Unlike Baelish who thought getting hurt by a customer was a hazard and there was nothing to do about it, the Hound seemed worried and perhaps guilty for what had happened to her.

"I think I'm fine... I don't know," she added on an impulse, looking for sympathy.

"Do you mind if I have a look?"

_Like the first time?_ She was at a loss, because he had asked her, for a change. Sansa bit her lip and pondered over it before making up her mind. Nobody seemed to care about her – even if the red-haired girl they call Evie smiled at Sansa every time they met in the house._ And he asked my permission._ With his arms dangling and his seriousness, the Hound didn't look like he was about to hurt her. She slowly nodded.

"Sit down on the edge of the bed, then," he whispered.

"Are you going to apply balm on my back, this time?" she asked him. "Because it left greasy stains on the dress I was wearing the other night."

Sitting down, she bit her lip, remembering how he had laughed at her when she complained about the marks on the carpet; to Sansa's great surprise, his sarcasms never came.

"Don't think it's necessary," he simply commented.

The mattress sank under his weight when he positioned himself behind her. Her shoulders tensed but she said nothing and let him button down her dress. The Hound didn't rant this time and did it wordlessly; she clutched to the front of her dress, her hands on her heart. She wanted to ask him if her cuts were healing, if everything seemed alright, but the words were stuck in her throat.

The cheerful music coming from the copper-colored horn and filling the room contrasted with their silence; she knew he was looking at her, staring at expanses of flesh nobody saw. For a second, Sansa imagined what he saw: the auburn hair she had put in a bun on the back of her neck, her spine, her pale skin scraped in places. She tried to picture the grazes that were brownish now, and the bruises turning to yellow, but the image lingering in her mind was that of the Hound's big calloused hands next to the small of her back.

_He'll find another excuse, next time. Will I refuse?_ Sansa contemplated the possibility of forbidding the Hound to have a look at her back; she could tell him the cuts had healed, she could give modesty as a reason, she could tell him she simply didn't want to give in to his tantrums anymore. _Is this what I want?_

All of a sudden, she felt his hand on her right shoulder, the long fingers and the palm fitting the form of her joint; the warmth his hand provided made her relax a bit more until his callous thumb slipped between her skin and the strap of her dress. Then, he slowly made it slide off her shoulder. Sansa's heart skipped a beat and her back stiffened; she nonetheless let him do the same on her left shoulder.

Now that he had access to her back she thought he would run his fingers down her spine or something like this but nothing came. He watched her wordlessly and when the song finally ended, giving way to the crackle of the needle against the record, all she could hear was his breathing. That sound – his ragged breath behind her she heard despite the faint noises coming from the phonograph – disturbed her more than what had happened before.

Sansa knew the situation was inappropriate – even Baelish would hit the ceiling if he saw his protegé half-naked in front of a customer who had only paid for a dance – but she was glued to the edge of the bed and she didn't want anything of this to end. _I won't protest if he wants to have a look at my back next time_, she realized, guilt and curiosity being on a level playing field in her mind.

"The phonograph," he said softly, as if he was afraid of rushing her.

Sansa stood up abruptly and put the straps back in place with a shrug before walking to the phonograph. While she was by the French window, picking another record, she didn't glance at him, but she felt his eyes on her. Her dress was still open and her position, facing the phonograph, allowed him to see a large part of her back. What he saw, what he didn't and what he imagined as her dress hung loosely on her shoulders made her swallow hard.

_I should be more careful with him; I should impose limits instead of accepting everything._ Yet the sensation of being watched was strange: disturbing and intoxicating at the same time. Slow but steady, the barriers her education had built around her were collapsing one by one. The changes she went through puzzled her. _Is it because of the place I'm living in? Is it because of him?_ She didn't feel ready to answer this question.

Sansa nevertheless came back to the Hound, blushing deeply.

"Can you help me button up my dress?" she asked, avoiding his gaze.

From the corner of her eye, she saw him nodding and getting on his feet. He fumbled with the buttons, like the first time, and he sighed when it was over.

"There's something to eat if you're hungry," she said, turning to him. "I asked for sandwiches."

Sansa pointed at the dome plate cover on the desk; earlier that day, she had asked the cook to prepare a plate for her guest. The old woman had frowned but she had obeyed all the same, giving her a plate with three ham sandwiches.

The Hound nodded curtly, walked to the desk and went back to the leather armchair, the plate in his hands. He bit the slices of bread while she sat cautiously on the edge of the bed, observing his attitude. Once the first sandwich was but breadcrumbs on his pants, he sat back and let out a sigh.

"Want some?" he rasped, holding out the plate.

_That's an improvement. Maybe I'll finally teach him politeness._

"No, thanks. I've eaten before."

"What did you eat?"

She repressed a chuckle. He sounded like her father when he had had a long day at work and asked her what she had done, who she had seen, and what she had had for lunch.

"Some soup," she answered evasively. "Bread, cheese and... baked apples."

"What kind of menu is that?"

"Well, that's what the cook gives us for dinner everyday. Peitho's orders."

The girls ate together in the kitchens, under the madam's watchful gaze. Baelish's employees couldn't get too fat or too thin and Peitho therefore controlled what they fed on. Sansa had heard that some of her companions had stolen food from the kitchens because they were hungry; Peitho had kept a part of their wages once she had discovered it.

"Why doesn't she give you meat or eggs? Some solid food?" the Hound inquired.

Sansa didn't want to discuss the concept of solid food with him, but she felt the urge to answer nonetheless.

"Peitho doesn't want us to get fat," she explained. "We eat boiled vegetables and baked fruits because it's good for digestion.

"Your better off saying she doesn't want Baelish's whores to fart while they are in bed with a customer," he snorted.

_It's gross! How can he talk like that?_

"You think I'm rude, girl," he commented, observing her. "You're right. Take one."

He held out the plate to her, though she looked at her pretty high heel shoes insistently.

"It took away my appetite," she replied coldly.

"Oh, come on, Little bird. Don't make a fuss about a stupid remark."

The Hound waved the plate under Sansa's nose, hoping the smell of ham tempted her. Even if she faced his scarred side, he looked triumphant when she met his gaze.

"But you're hungry."

"I'm a man, I'm always hungry," he retorted, shrugging.

She gave him a long look and finally took a sandwich.

"Good girl," he whispered, smirking.

He had spoken as if she was a wild animal he tried to tame, but Sansa wondered who was really domesticating the other one. _I'm the one who gave him food in the first place_, she mused, nibbling at her sandwich.

After she put another record on the turntable – a ballad called _Blue Jeans_ – she sat again on the bed and watched him carelessly dusting down his pants so that the breadcrumbs fell on the rug.

"I've heard you knew this place," she said, taking him unaware.

Forgetting about the breadcrumbs, he stared at her, narrowing his eyes. _Don't pretend you're surprised, you knew that conversation would come._

"I met the girl you... visited," she added. "Evie. She's pregnant."

She saw him curl his fingers and uncurl them as if he prepared himself before a fight. His long dark hair hid a part of his face and when he locked eyes with her again, he looked more sullen than ever.

"Can't be my child, girl. It's been a year since I last came. And I always take precautions."

A deep blush crept over her cheeks as she tried to keep away the images of the Hound knocking at Evie's door.

"Why did you choose her?" she heard herself whisper.

Sansa couldn't believe she had had enough guts to ask him; it was tactless and indiscreet – exactly what she found so exasperating about the Hound. He stared at her for a long while, his narrow eyes and scowl more threatening than ever.

"She's mute and I never liked talkative whores," he finally answered, observing her reaction. "Don't go to brothels to talk with a stupid girl who knows nothing except spreading her legs. And if she goes on talking, well... I've my own ways to shush whores. It's rather efficient, usually."

A sardonic smile pulled up the corner of his lips, animating the right side of his face with a cruel satisfaction; he anticipated her scandalized look – when she understood the exact meaning of his words – and he enjoyed it. Sansa averted her eyes.

"Why are you so insufferable?" she managed to say, unable to meet his gaze.

"Why did you ask, in the first place?"

"Evie said you told her about me."

"She said?" he asked, frowning in disbelief.

"Oh, you know what I mean... She's mute, but she can express what she thinks-"

"Fuck! Why would I tell her something about you?" he rasped. "The world doesn't revolve around you, girl!"

Sansa sighed deeply, closing her eyes and trying to think straight. Another walk to the phonograph gave her a short respite.

"What I don't understand is... what will happen to Evie's child," she explained, sitting on her favorite spot on the bed. "Can a child live in a place like this house?"

"Evie is still here?" he asked. "Baelish didn't toss her out?"

The Hound looked surprised. She nodded.

"It would be so unfair if he sent her away!" she protested. "Luckily, he told her she could stay."

He shifted and crossed his long legs, frowning.

"Luckily?" he repeated. "Do you really think he gives a shit about some whore working for him? Luck or compassion has nothing to do with it. Baelish must have a fucking plan for Evie or for her child."

"A plan?" she nearly shouted. "What kind of plan are you talking about? Baelish can't be that cruel..."

He shook his head, seemingly annoyed by her gullibility.

"Look at you," he rasped. "You were an orphan, you had lost everything and he just took advantage of your situation. Isn't that cruel?"

Sansa pondered on his words and wordlessly looked at her folded hands.

"What can we do about Evie?" she finally asked, setting her blue eyes on him.

"Nothing. If Evie got herself into deep shit, that's not my business. Preparing your flight is my highest priority."

She repressed a chuckle and slightly shook her head; he leaned forward as soon as he noticed it.

"What is it you find so funny, girl?" he growled, his dark hair framing his disfigured face.

"If I'm your highest priority, as you claim, why didn't you prevent all this? It would have been easier to do something before I ended up in this awful place!"

Her high-pitched voice struck her: it was the voice of a girl who had endured many things without complaining before yielding to anger. The Hound stood up and cupped her chin, towering above her.

"Ever heard of Blackwater, girl?"

She remembered the beach on the New Jersey shore where Stannis Baratheon had tried to arrest the Lannister henchmen just before Joffrey sent her away, was called Blackwater. She nodded, despite the strong hand holding her chin.

"I've been a bit busy, lately," he added. "After these scumbags tried to stop us and took most of the shipment, some of the men were wounded. We were on the lam. I kept a low profile until things settled down. When I came back, the Little Bird was gone. End of story."

His detached tone expressed so much resentment it hurt her. Abashed, Sansa let her eyes fall on his broad chest, then on his middle and finally contemplated his shoes. He let go of her and silently went back to the armchair, cursing. She felt so embarrassed she didn't say anything, not even an apology, before it was time for him to leave.

Ignoring her, he walked around the bed in hurried strides and took the overcoat he had left on the console table. She followed him, fighting against a persistent sensation of awkwardness and guilt. His gray eyes darkened when he turned around and saw her in front of him.

"I know there are creases on my shirt, girl," he rasped, anticipating what she wanted to do and stepping forward. "Don't bother yourself with that. I'm just an old dog who visits whores and who arrived too late to save you from all this."

He was towering above her again, his eyes going from her reddened face to her neckline then back to her blue eyes, wondering when she would move aside.

"I want you to come back," she said in a toneless voice. "I want you to come back, Sandor."

She never used his first name when she called him – in fact, she never called him – and she had done it on an impulse, hoping that he would react. He snorted in disbelief.

"I mean it," she insisted hitting the high note and trying to lock eyes with him.

The Hound grabbed her upper arms, made her sit on the bed, then squatted in front of her and bore into her eyes.

"It's late," he growled. "The little girl should get some sleep."

With that, he stood up and left her.

Sansa stayed there for long minutes before raising her gaze and finding the red morocco bindings of the books he had stolen, forgotten on the console table.

"I'll read the books," she said out loud, even if he couldn't hear her anymore. "I'll read the books."

* * *

Two days after the Hound's visit, Peitho knocked at Sansa's door to introduce another customer. Despite the man's lateness, Sansa was still in front of her cheval mirror, checking her hair. Her headband didn't stay in place – but with its gossamer flowers and its pearl gray ribbon, it perfectly matched the silvery dress with a pleated skirt she had chosen that night.

She smiled at her reflection – even though she hardly recognized that tall red-haired girl with rouged lips and mascara – and turned to greet her new customer. In the door frame, Peitho gestured and the man stepped in. When he heard Sansa's voice, he turned slightly to his left and she gaped; these droopy eyes and the red beard belonged to another familiar figure of the Red Mansion: Meryn Trant.

Forgetting about politeness, Sansa tried to lock eyes with Peitho and to beg her silently; she didn't want to stay alone with a man who had beaten her every time Joffrey asked him. She could tell from the mad look in his eyes whenever he slapped her in the face, the man loved to hurt people – and especially loved to hit her. However, Peitho quickly closed the door without noticing Sansa's frantic glances and she left the girl alone with her tormentor.

"Seems that you're stuck with me, now," he spat, leering at her.

Smirking, he walked towards her, stopping at arm's length of her shaking form.

"Good evening," she mumbled.

"Good evening to you, doll."

Sansa observed his broad shoulders and long, powerful arms. Any mistake, any sign of weakness could have disastrous consequences with a man like Meryn Trant. _Breath deeply and act as if everything was alright._

"Please sit down," she said, managing to smile shyly and pointing at the armchair across the room.

Trant chuckled and sat on the bed, eying her greedily. With his legs open and his fixed grin, he was the image of the future customers she feared so much. _But I'll never become a whore, the Hound promised me. I'll fly away before it happens. And if it ever happens, I'll be so expensive the likes of Trant will never pay for a night with me._ She shivered, realizing she couldn't even think straight in front of the man who enjoyed to beat her.

"I'm sorry, Sir, but the armchair will be much more comfortable to sit in and watch me dance."

"Did I say I wanted you to dance, girl?" he asked, but he stood up and walked to the armchair nonetheless.

_Just a stupid joke, but it's alright. Focus on the music, focus on your dance, and he'll be gone within an hour._

Sansa felt ham-handed with the records and she had to have a second go at it, before the 78 rpm was correctly placed on the turntable. The music flooded the air and she walked towards the man slumped in the leather armchair. The cheerful brass wind of 'Ain't We Got Fun' encouraged her, but she decided to keep her distance with Trant. She began to move, slowly at first, trying to release the nervous tension in her limbs. Closing her eyes and trying to forget about him, she swung her arms in rhythm and swayed her hips.

_In the winter, in the summer _

_Don't we have fun? _

_Times are bum and getting bummer _

_Still we have fun._

Still dancing, she tried to find solace in the conversation she had had with Baelish and Peitho, a few days before._ Baelish said it: what he sells to these men is an hour spent with me. I dance and I dance only for him. Baelish sells him the illusion that he could end up in bed with me, but it is an illusion-_

Her arm brushed against something and she immediately opened her eyes. Meryn Trant had left the armchair and now stood only inches of her. She froze.

"What- What are you doing?" she stammered, terrified.

"I thought of jerking off in front of you, but why would I do that when we can have some fun?"

She stepped back, trying to calm down in spite of the panic overwhelming her senses.

"Please sit down, Sir," she said with the best smile she could give him.

"Sir? Come on, we know each other, you and I. We already had fun," he answered, using the song's catchphrase.

"Please. Walk to the armchair and sit back. You won't regret it; I'm a good dancer. One of my customers says I'm gifted."

Sansa understood her desperate attempt to reason him was a failure when he caught her wrist.

"No," she said, wriggling away from Trant. "Please!"

She frantically retreated to the bathroom, hoping she could lock herself inside, but before she reached the door, he managed to grab her around her waist and carried her to the bed, where he unceremoniously dropped her.

_When I first saw you, _

_I had but one thought _

_And then you chased me _

_- oh, until you were caught._

Screaming, Sansa kicked him until he let go of her; on her hands and knees, she hurried to reach the other side of the bed – the door side. He caught her by the ankle, dragged her across the bed and slapped her. She shouted even more, clutching to the faint hope that someone would hear the noise. Changing his mind, he walked to the desk, took the chair where Sansa sat down to read the newspaper everyday and he positioned the chair against the door, to delay those who may rescue the girl.

In the meanwhile, she stayed by the console table, trying to find something – anything – that might help her. There were no scissors, no paper knife in her room. As he walked back to her, she grabbed the bronze statuette on the console table, but before she could hit Trant with it, he grasped her around the wrist and made her drop her makeshift weapon. In desperation, she tried to find something else and seized one of the books the Hound had given her; a blow on Trant's head elicited a low growl.

Out of control, he hit her so forcefully she collapsed on the floor, her back hitting the table feet. Sansa was so weak after her fall she didn't flail when he scooped her up and carried her to the bed again. When she felt his hands on her, she nevertheless tried to thrash about, and she even managed to scratch her attacker.

"Stupid bitch!" he spat. "You'll be sorry for that."

Trant straddled her, leaning on Sansa with his full weight, his face distorted by rage. Holding her wrists above her head with one hand, he tore her dress from the left shoulder to the hip, despite her protestations. Now that most of her body was exposed to his eyes, she sobbed and cried even more; he shushed her with another slap. She felt woozy as he ran his hand down her neck.


	4. Gashes

**Warning for violence against women.**

* * *

**Chapter 4: Gashes**

She felt numb as Trant's hands tried to free her from her dress – that expensive silvery dress Baelish had given her a few days ago, a ridiculous grin on his face. Why that particular detail – Baelish watching her with his slicked hair and smug smile – had popped up in her mind, Sansa couldn't tell.

The thin fabric offered more resistance than expected though, and she heard her assailant cursing, yet his voice seemed far away, as if there was no connection between the hands she felt on her chest and the noises all around her: the sound of tearing fabric, the unpleasant rustle of the satin bedspread underneath her, Trant's puffing and panting, and the profanities he mumbled.

All of a sudden, he shifted and hiked up her dress. _No, you can't let him do that to you._ She protested, shook her head and tried to struggle but he was far more robust than her and he easily prevented her feeble attempts to escape him.

"Sansa! Open that door, now! Sansa..."

That voice seemed far away, too, as if there were leagues between Sansa and the person who called her, as if it belonged to another dimension.

_Mother_, she thought, suddenly convinced this feminine voice was Catelyn's._ Who else? Who else would come for me now that I live in a brothel and dance in front of lewd old men? Oh, Mother..._

Furious shouts suddenly filled the room and Sansa protested again, her hands moving of their own accord. _Leave me be, now. You're making too much noise._

"Oh, Sansa. You're alright, baby girl. You're alright..."

There were more cries, more agitation in the room, then on the landing and in the staircase, but Sansa felt dragged on the bed, cradled like a child. The scent – a rich mix of bergamot and oak-moss – was not Catelyn's. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she realized.

"No, no, darling Sansa, don't cry. It's over."

The woman obstinately cradled her, clinging to Sansa as if she tried to reassure herself. Exhausted and overwrought, she sank into a restless sleep, interrupted by nightmares.

* * *

Peitho's oval face, with her dark eyes and rouged lips, was the first thing she saw when she woke up the morning after. The blond madam still wore her evening dress – an exquisite black dress with a V neckline and fringes on the armholes and on the skirt. With the exaggerated lip-line, her mouth looked like a cherry; after a night spent watching over Sansa, her mascara had run, darkening her lower eyelids.

Sansa sat up abruptly, trying to recall what had happened, then she looked at her bare arms and remembered: she had scratches going from her wrists to her elbows. Her forehead hurt. Peitho's tender smile was reassuring and compassionate at the same time. _I look bad. Really bad._

Getting on her feet, the madam left the armchair she had spent the night in and sat down on the edge of the bed, taking Sansa's hands in hers. The pressure the girl felt around her fingers was friendly yet it exuded some unutterable concern. Peitho would probably never acknowledge it, yet she was worried.

"You're safe."

Another squeeze of her hands proved the blond woman's relief; Sansa nodded slowly.

"Did he-" Her trailing voice betrayed the girl's inability to ask the most important question.

"No," Peitho announced. "He hit you but he didn't have the time to-"

Oddly enough, as if Sansa's unease rubbed off on her, the madam wasn't able to finish her sentence. Without any other warning than watery eyes, she hugged Sansa and held her tightly. She muttered something the girl didn't understand probably because it was Russian words. A bit surprised, Sansa didn't resist and finally patted Peitho's back. The blond woman's chest heaved painfully and she began to sob, her head resting against Sansa's shoulder. All of a sudden, Peitho let go of her and wiped her tears with a shy smile.

"I'm sorry, darling Sansa. I should be the one who comforts you instead of crying like a little girl," she apologized, sniffing. "Must be because I didn't sleep much."

"What happened exactly?"

Sansa had noticed the nightgown someone had helped her slip on and wondered how she had ended up in bed, with some band-aid on her face – she could feel it on her temple.

"Jo heard you scream. She warned me and we tried to open the door, but it was closed-"

"He had blocked the door with a chair," she explained.

Peitho nodded, her gaze lingering on Sansa's gashes.

"We tried to open it, to- How do you say it?" The madam mimicked the gesture of someone pushing a door.

"You tried to knock it down."

"That's it. The cook came to help us and Jo knocked down the door. Someone will fix it today."

She pointed at the unhinged door, then locked eyes with Sansa again.

"Jo was incredible. She threw herself on your customer, with the cook, while I checked on you. You were in shock. I was afraid you could have a concussion, so I called Doctor Pycelle. He said you were alright and needed a good rest. No chores, no customers today. You stay in bed and you relax."

Her motherly attitude didn't completely reassure Sansa.

"What happened to Meryn Trant?" she asked after a while.

"We threw him out, of course! Jo kicked him once or twice."

"You didn't go to the police, did you?"

Peitho looked embarrassed.

"You know we can't go to the police, child. And he works for the Lannisters! But he won't come back."

Sansa repressed a shiver. _What did you expect, silly girl?_ In Baelish's absurd kingdom, things happened that way: the government's laws did not apply inside the house. The customers could do as they pleased, on condition that they paid. Trant had demanded much more than the dance he had paid for, but he remained a customer: neither Baelish nor Peitho would tell on him.

She clenched her fists. Baelish denied her the right to lay charges and there was nothing she could do about it. _Nothing. Except pray that Trant doesn't come back._

* * *

Her reflection in the mirror was dreadful; she didn't only have scratches but also bruises – the new ones probably covering those that Pig had left on her back, the dark ones superimposing on yellowish hues. Standing in front of the mirror in her bathroom, Sansa frowned at the sight of her nose, tumid on one side. The cut on her lower lip was the ugliest thing she had seen in a while. With a determined gesture, she took off her nightgown and examined her skin.

Trant had left marks on her bust from her left shoulder to her navel – abrasions, cuts and even teeth marks she didn't recall. Tears pooled at the corner of her eyes when she realized how he had ruined her breasts. Dark red crusts showed the places where his nails had dug in to the tender skin and the teeth marks right above her nipple sickened her. It was disturbing to discover afterward a proof of something she didn't remember.

Forgetting about her breasts, she scrutinized the skin of her belly and found more scratches, sometimes longer than the other ones, but the cuts were superficial and they didn't reveal the fury that had taken hold of Trant. _On my legs, however..._ It was just before Peitho's arrival to rescue her, and Trant's anger and frustration were visible. The top of her thighs was covered with bruises, and she recalled how he had leaned on her with his full weight before hiking up her skirt. The memory brought back more tears and a futile urge to press her legs together.

Cocking her head to the side, she contemplated the bathtub filled with warm water that awaited her. _'A hot bath, and it will be as if nothing had happened,'_ Peitho had said. It was a foolish notion, but she had nothing else to do. And nobody else to turn to. _She seemed so worried this morning when I woke up._

She looked at the mirror again, examining the pale girl whose bruises and cuts ruined the once flawless skin. She was but a doll with a slender figure, a thin waist, round breasts and long legs; a broken doll, damaged by some boisterous child, but she would be fixed, dressed and her hair would be done before her next customer arrived._ Not tonight - Peitho has been adamant – but I will dance again the night after._ It was her future, her destiny.

She sighed deeply and contorted herself to have a look at her back. _He won't be pleased._ She easily imagined the Hound's reaction when he would discover the long gashes on her back. The memory of her fall and the pain she had felt the night before when she had collided with the table's feet were acute, still she didn't know how her back looked like until that moment. _There are more bruises, there._

She suddenly pictured the Hound's next visit and she knew he would ask about her back. What would she tell him, then? Could she lie and say that nothing had happened? Could she prevent him from seeing the marks of Trant's assault? She hastily wiped the tears rolling down her cheeks, eager to forget about him and about everything.

Sansa wished she could break the mirror that witnessed her shame and the anger seething in her mind. Removing her panties, she quickly crossed the room to step in the bathtub and she clutched to the faint hope that Peitho could be right about the effects of a hot bath after an assault.

The warm water stung and when she immersed herself it was as if Trant bit the tender skin of her breast again; she clenched her teeth.

* * *

Evie's belly was rounder everyday but nobody seemed surprised to see her cleaning the floors or helping in the kitchens. _But there's something we can do about it, I'm sure._ Sansa's reflection was fruitless so far and she kept searching her mind to find a solution; in the meanwhile, she needed to know more about Evie. During the afternoon, as two carpenters bustled about the unhinged door of Sansa's room, she went downstairs, found Evie and convinced her they both deserved a break.

Evie smiled and followed her out of the meeting hall, grabbing Sansa's wrist and leading her upstairs. Sansa obeyed, even if she didn't understand why a pregnant woman insisted on climbing stairs instead of staying on the first floor; she opened her eyes wide when Evie showed her the cubbyhole where she slept. It was like lifting the curtain and discovering how prostitutes ended up, when they had disappointed their pimp. Evie couldn't even receive a customer in such a place and Sansa guessed Baelish had sent her to this tiny room in the attic after he had learned about her pregnancy.

Apart from a narrow bed, a worm-eaten chest of drawers and a chair, there was no furniture. The blanket she had given Evie was folded and carefully put on top of the chest. If Evie didn't stand the bareness she lived in, she didn't show it; smiling, she pointed at the chair until Sansa sat down and she lowered herself on the sagging bed.

"No," Sansa protested, "you should have the chair-"

Evie shook her head vehemently; she had a guest and she would treat her with consideration – her round belly didn't change anything. If the chair was the only seat worthy of the name in this room, her guest had to sit down on it. The red-haired woman extended her hand to reach something she kept under the mattress then held it out triumphantly.

"A slate?" Sansa commented. "I didn't know you used a slate."

Taking a piece of chalk, Evie hastily wrote something, before turning the slate so that Sansa could read.

_"Most people don't ask." _The young woman's smile seemed a bit melancholic as she let her decipher her sloping handwriting.

"When are you supposed to give birth to this baby?" Sansa asked.

_"Ten weeks. Hope it's a boy."_

"A boy? Why?" Sansa exclaimed.

_"A girl could end up in a brothel and get hurt. Like me, like you."_

As she felt her gaze lingering on her bruised face, Sansa swallowed hard. Evie quickly wiped the words with her palm, then wrote again.

_"How do you feel?"_

The question was rather simple but Sansa realized at once that nobody had asked her – nor Peitho, nor the other girls who had looked hard at her during the lunch. Evie was the first one to ask her if she was alright.

"I think I'm fine."

Evie's eyes filled with tears but she went on writing.

_"That's why I pray to God every night, not to have a daughter."_

"I'll pray for you," Sansa answered. "I'll pray that your child is healthy and has a beautiful life."

The squeaking of chalk against slate didn't last long this time. _"Thank you, Sansa."_

"If you need anything-" Sansa began, but Evie stopped her with a nod.

_"Is the Hound coming back?"_ Evie asked, drawing two huge question marks.

Sansa felt slightly embarrassed.

"Well, I think so. But I don't want to think about it right now, not after what happened last night."

Evie looked puzzled for a while; she hesitated then took the chalk once more.

_"He'll come. He cares about you."_

Sansa giggled and did nothing to repress her fit of laughter hoping that it would hide her reddened cheeks.

"As if the Hound cared for someone!" she commented.

Evie rolled her eyes. _"But he does. He cares for you. He loves you."_

Shifting on her seat, Sansa felt at a loss. The tricks she could use when chatting with someone else were pointless with Evie; since she was mute, lies and subterfuges people used in society had no effect on her. Changing the subject or pretending not to understand would be stupid. Sansa remained silent and tried to stomach the news. He cares for me. He loves me. Her first reaction – after a state of abashment – was simple: she doubted that Evie's story was true.

"How can you be sure about it?"

Evie bit her lip.

_"Do you know why the Hound choose me instead of another girl?"_

"Because you're beautiful. And you're a kind person."

_Please don't tell me he chose you because you're mute._ Evie grinned and motioned Sansa so that she sat down on the bed, by her side; she grabbed Sansa's wrist and pointed at the girl's pale skin, then at hers. Sansa's eyes widened in surprise, so Evie went on. She undid her hair, taking her red locks, then stroked Sansa's long braid.

"We have red hair, we are pale," Sansa confirmed. "So what?"

At the back of her mind, an idea she thought foolish and trivial gained ground; the more Sansa rejected this idea, the more logic it seemed. Her heart pounding in her chest, she silently watched Evie as she took again the slate and piece of chalk.

_"We look like each other, you and I. One night, when we were together, the Hound shouted your name."_

Evie paused, letting out a deep sigh. Sansa was confused; another girl would have given her saucy details about her nights with the Hound. Evie didn't wish to shock her: the difficulties she had to express herself made her straight forward and more sincere than anyone else in Baelish's house.

_"He thought the girls could have heard him and make the connection. So he never came back. It was a year ago, before Peitho's arrival. Long before I got pregnant."_

Her eyes falling on her lap, Sansa didn't completely realize what Evie had told her. _We look like each other. The Hound cares for me and-_

_"I understood everything the day you arrived, Sansa."_

Then, putting aside the now useless slate and piece of chalk, Evie took her in her arms and cradled her. The frail young woman didn't hug her like Peitho; the madam had clung to her demonstratively while Evie's embrace seemed more serene. Peitho had cried and talked with a motherly tone while Evie didn't need to pretend; she _was_ a mother, even if she was hardly older than Sansa, even if childbirth was still weeks away.

* * *

Exhilaration took hold of Baelish's house as the preparations for the show began; Sansa's assault – or _'the incident'_ as they all said – had convinced Baelish his protege would be safer and would make more money if dozens of men could see her dance.

Thus, Peitho demanded that all the girls take part in the preparations: some sewed costumes, others practiced, while a few cleaned the meeting hall and painted the scenery. Sansa ended up with the ones who prepared the outfits the girls would wear on stage and she sewed Peitho's dress.

"We should have another one like this instead of ruining our hands," Meg complained, glaring at Dorothy who was sitting behind a Singer sewing machine, while her sister Lois told her in a whisper how to use it.

Peitho heard Meg's remark but she was busy watching the girls who danced on the stage and she therefore didn't reply; her lack of reaction emboldened Viola.

"Why are we doing this in the first place?" she asked, putting aside her needlework. "We don't know how to dance or how to sing!"

"Don't assume everyone else is in the same boat, dear," Peitho retorted, forgetting about the girls' practice.

Dorothy and Lois chuckled instantly, their blond heads colliding at some point. Eager to escape the gossipy and stifling atmosphere, Sansa asked if she could take her needlework to her room and hardly waited for Peitho's approval to rush upstairs.

* * *

Sansa tossed and turned until dawn, before sinking into sleep. The nightmares she had had right after her assault came back and left her exhausted. Peitho asked her about her drawn features, as the preparations for the show went on. When the telephone rang, Peitho left the girls alone in the meeting hall; she came back a minute later and motioned Sansa towards her with a gesture.

"One of your customers wants to come and see you dancing tonight," Peitho explained. "I'm going to tell him you're sick."

"Who is it? Is it Berdokhovski?"

"No, this horrible man, the Hound, called and I didn't have scruples to let him wait," the blond woman answered, pouting.

Sansa's heart skipped a beat; Peitho misunderstood her panicked expression and supposed she was afraid to dance again in front of a customer.

"Very well, dear, I'll tell him you're bedridden. You need another night of rest."

As the madam turned around, decided to usher out the man she considered as an unwelcome visitor, Sansa extended her arm and stopped her. _I don't want to miss a chance to see him._

"No, no, Peitho, please wait!" the girl protested. "I'd rather dance tonight instead of dwelling on what happened. Tell him he can come."

Spinning on her heels, Peitho carefully watched Sansa, taking in the tumid nose and the pale face with dark circles .

"Are you sure, child?" she asked, gently cupping Sansa's chin. "When I told you the Hound planned to come, you looked frightened... This man scares you."

"No, he doesn't. You took me unawares and I'm a bundle of nerves, today. I think I need to resume work. I need to dance."

Her voice – quicker and sharper than usual – exuded nervousness; she feared not to convince Peitho, but the madam lay blame on the ordeal she had been through with Trant and decided to believe her.

"If you ever change your mind, I'll send him away, child. Just tell me," she said, rubbing Sansa's cheek with an affectionate gesture. "But what will you do about your nose? He'll see it."

"Can't I powder it?"

"I suppose you can," Peitho replied, tilting her head and scrutinizing the marks on her face. "I'll help you if you want."

"We're talking about a veteran, after all," Sansa added, eager to persuade her. "I doubt a tumid nose scares him away."

"Men want us pretty."

Peitho had spoken with a hint of melancholy, as if she wanted to warn the girl. Weakness and lack of elegance didn't get well with their trade. The slightest flaw, the tiniest wrinkle were signs of decline and the kept woman who was careless about her appearance – or simply less done up than she used to so far – went downhill. In Peitho's case, Sansa imagined it was a daily struggle, with kohl and silk stockings instead of machine guns and shellfire; the blond woman, as beautiful as she was, knew she fought a losing battle.

Peitho nevertheless walked to Baelish's office to inform the Hound he could come; when she returned to the meeting hall, she had put on her mask of self-confidence and no one could tell what kind of contradictory thoughts banged like huge waves in her blond head.

* * *

Sansa had left nothing to chance about the third visit of the Hound: she had asked for sandwiches in the kitchens, she had requested Peitho's help to powder her face and to conceal the marks of her aggression. She had even donned long gloves to hide the gashes on her forearms. These tricks were intended for Peitho, rather than the Hound; Baelish's mistress had to believe that Sansa was recovering and was ready to welcome another customer. As soon as the Hound would arrive, the girl wanted to tell him what had happened two days ago and to convince him to hasten their departure.

She tried to focus on this idea and to keep at bay the questions that had sprouted up in her mind after her conversation with Evie. _Maybe she didn't understand. Maybe I didn't understand what she tried to say. All I need is to leave this place, by any means._

Her dark red dress made her look very pale, when she observed her reflection in the cheval mirror; the costly dress with a low-waistline and shiny seed beads enhanced her complexion and but didn't hide the scratches on the top of her back, on her upper arms or on her throat.

And suddenly he came in, as sullen and impressive as usual. Even if she had seen him countless times in the Red Mansion and was supposedly accustomed to his massive figure, Sansa still had this weird sensation that the Hound's presence filled the room, whenever they met.

No matter how hard she tried to stay calm, her heart was pounding in her chest when she walked towards him, a shy smile on her lips. She helped him take off his overcoat, wordlessly and with unhurried movements, then carried it to the console table; there were droplets on the woolen fabric, as the rain had been pouring all day. She folded the overcoat and put it on the console table so that it covered the small hole on the wall, before coming back to him. _Forget about Evie. Don't ever think of what she said. Focus on your escape._

As she stepped towards him, she realized he had seen the cuts and bruises on her skin: he was frowning, nostrils a-quiver.

"What happened to you?" His accusatory tone hurt her; he sounded as if not telling him about Trant to begin with was a deadly sin. "What are you trying to hide?" he went on.

In two long strides, he was in front of her and he cupped her chin, forcing her to watch his scars. With his other hand, he brushed the side of her nose, eliciting a tiny gasp from her. His angry eyes scanned her face, detected on her temple the gash she tried to hide with a headband and, at that moment, Sansa could have sworn the gray pupils had turned black.

"Speak!" he urged her.

Her chin began to quiver against his callous hand; Sansa did her best to regain her composure and to fight back tears. With a tremendous effort, she managed to mumble her answer.

"Meryn Trant came here."

He stiffened at once and as he still looked inquiringly at her, she decided not to hide anything.

"He tried to rape me."

These last words cost her more than all she had endured before – neither the pain, nor the other girls' look, nor the prospect of being stuck in Baelish's brothel had been nearly as hard as this confession. Now that Sansa had put into words Trant's intentions towards her, she admitted she was a victim, and furthermore, an objectified woman who could be used and abused without a second thought. She fell to pieces and began to sob. The Hound turned around immediately and kicked the first thing within reach – the stool of her dressing table.

The wooden stool crashed to the opposite wall with such a fierceness Sansa jumped. The Hound cursed and she suddenly thought of the other inhabitants of the house. _Let's hope they didn't hear anything._ Trembling like a leaf, she went to the phonograph and tried to remove a record from its sleeve but her long gloves combined to her nervousness slowed her up.

"What the hell are you doing?" he grunted, coming closer and stopping right behind her. "You think it's time to listen to some shitty song?"

She pointed at the door, swallowing hard.

"If they don't listen to music..." she explained. "Can you do it for me? Please."

She held out the sleeve to him and he complied, snorting. Once the music flooded in the bedroom, she stepped back, afraid of his reaction and began to hug herself. The Hound paced the floor, swearing, and Sansa, despite her distress, wished she could do something to calm him down. The emotions she felt seemed to collide in her head, preventing her from thinking straight. At some point, she even understood what the Hound had said about the song. Yes, it was _shitty_ and she would gladly slapped the trumpeter in his face for taunting her with this cheerful music.

"He tried to rape me, but he didn't have enough time..." she added, watching him pacing up and down. "I swear it's true. Peitho heard my screams and she saved me."

He froze, turned around and walked towards her so briskly she recoiled and bumped into the bed-frame.

"You think this blond whore saved you?" he snarled at her. "She just saved Baelish's investment, girl, that's all!"

That notion – Peitho rescuing her not for herself but for the money that was at stake – was so disturbing Sansa had tried to bury it away; the roughness of the Hound's remark hurt her and tears rolled down her cheeks again. Remembering how Peitho had patiently applied makeup on her eyes and face, she frantically looked for some handkerchief before the Hound stopped her, retrieving his from his pocket. He gave her the piece of smooth fabric, though his eyes still glistened with fury. _Does he think I gave Trant any encouragement? Does he think I triggered the aggression?_

"Why are you mad at me?" she asked, carefully dabbing her eyes. "I swear I didn't do anything to suggest Trant that I-"

"I know," he growled, towering over her.

His voice sounded different this time, anger giving way to concern. He gave a hint of a gesture, lifting his big hands, as if he wanted to pat her shoulder or to hold her in his arms. Sansa recalled her conversation with Evie and she felt terribly awkward; stepping aside, she went to her dressing table and took the small pot containing ointment he had given her on his first visit.

The Hound had turned slightly to observe her, his arms dangling in frustration. Taking a deep breath, she walked back to him and put the small jar in his hands, avoiding his gaze.

"You can have a look at my back if you want and even apply balm on it, but that's all. I can deal with the rest."

She was proud of her detached tone; he said nothing at first, then led her to the bed. Sansa sat down on the edge while he picked another record. He chose _There'll Be Some Changes_ Made by Benton Overstreet and gingerly put the 78 rpm on the turntable. When the mattress sagged behind her, she shivered in anticipation, but instead of buttoning down her dress, he took her right hand and removed the long glove hiding the cuts on her forearm. He did the same with her other hand, sighing when he caught sight of the scratches. He cursed when he buttoned down her dress and saw the long and rather deep gash under her shoulder-blade.

_For there's a change in the weather_  
_There's a change in the sea_  
_So from now on there'll be a change in me_  
_My walk will be different, my talk and my name_  
_Nothin' about me is going to be the same_

The cold contact of balm made her tremble.

"Do I hurt you?" he asked.

"No, it's cold."

As he stopped his ministrations for a few seconds, she glanced over her shoulder and saw him rubbing his hands to warm up the ointment, before touching her back again. His fingers brushed the gashes, and kneaded the places where she had bruises. The coarse aroma of camphor tickled her nose.

_For there's a change in the fashion_  
_Ask the feminine folks_  
_Even Jack Benny has been changing jokes_  
_I must make some changes from old to new_  
_I must do things just the same as others do_

"Why did you choose that song?" she asked the Hound.

"I dunno. Suppose it's the title. You don't like it, I bet?" he rasped.

"On the contrary, the song is well-chosen. The lyrics are rather serious in spite of the lighthearted tune."

She glanced over her shoulder again, but he had let his eyes fall to her lower back; however, there was no ambiguity in his behavior this time. He tried to find the right amount of pressure to rub in balm on her damaged skin without hurting her.

_I must have some loving or I'll fade away._  
_There'll be some changes made today,_

_There'll be some changes made_

When the phonograph went silent, he stood up and chose a different song. In the meanwhile, Sansa pondered on the lyrics, eyes downcast. _Am I supposed to change? Am I supposed to toughen up? What would my parents think of all this? Their little girl eyed greedily everyday and almost raped by a man twice her age... Only rescued because her maidenhood is valuable..._

Tears fell on her lap, like dark marks widening on the red fabric of her dress; that's how she realized she was crying again. Instead of sitting by her side, the Hound squatted in front of her and took her hands.

"Look at me, Little Bird. He won't come back."

Sansa noticed he had rolled up his sleeves and saw the rippling muscles of his forearms as he squeezed her fingers. He won't come back?

"He can come back when he wants, neither Peitho nor Baelish went to the police. I'm sure you saw him out there, in the Red Mansion, coming and going as if nothing had happened!"

Her angry tone fazed him; still squatting in front of her, he tried to stomach her words.

"Am I right? You met him since 'The Incident' as Baelish called what Trant did to me, you met him and he looked as if he had a clear conscience."

He let go of her hands and grabbed her upper arms, his gray eyes boring into hers.

"He won't come back," he whispered. "He won't touch you again."

"Don't try to deaden my mind with promises you can't keep! You said Peitho rescued me because I'm valuable but at least she didn't make false promises."

On the Hound's solemn features, her reproaches produced the same effect as a slap. She felt his fingers tense around her upper arms and she suddenly regretted her cutting remark and her challenging gaze. He nevertheless rubbed her arms when she began to sob, then sat down behind her to button up her dress. When it was over, he went to the closet, took a blanket from the upper shelf and wrapped it around Sansa's shoulders. She had kept his handkerchief and wrung it uselessly: he grabbed it and wiped her tears, kneeling in front of her.

"I want to go now," she muttered, crying. "Take me away from this place."

"We can't go tonight, nor tomorrow. I told you we need money."

"Can't you do something about all this?" she nearly shouted, exasperated by his answer.

His eyes narrowed suddenly and she saw his hands slightly shaking. The Hound stayed silent for a while and watched her sobbing before standing up and offering her his hand.

"Come," he whispered.

Still wrapped in her blanket, she got on her feet. She was flush with him, the top of her head hardly reaching his shoulder. Sansa hiccupped but managed to stop crying.

"Promises are for morons, so I won't make promises," he rasped. "Come."

As he opened his arms tentatively, she put her head against his chest and let him hug her. He was clumsy, patting her back forcefully instead of rubbing it.

"Just hold me," she whispered, breathing his usual smell – tobacco, whiskey and a hint of sweat that revealed he didn't spend his days behind a desk. He complied and stopped moving.

"Hush, it's over."

His husky voice soothed her, though she couldn't explain why. She craned her neck and saw hesitation in the stormy gray eyes; he finally scooped her up and carried her to the armchair, where he sat, Sansa on his knees. With careful movements, he wrapped the blanket around her form, then pulled her close. Placing a hand under her legs, he lifted her until she rested across his lap, her head on his shoulder and her knees on the armrest.

When she thought back of his second visit, she realized how different it had been. The Hound's goings-on about her back – even if, she admitted it, she had done nothing to stop him – had left little room for imagination: he wanted her. That night, however, he behaved as if he only wished to protect Sansa and, for the first time since Trant had crossed the threshold of her room, she felt safe.

"He knows I visited you," he confessed, staring into space. "I mean that bastard. Trant."

_Is it because Trant knew the Hound saw me that he decided to come?_

"Did you have troubles with him before?" she asked, looking up and trying to lock eyes with him.

"Other troubles than watching him beat you without doing anything?"

Sansa closed her eyes with exasperation; she sometimes thought the Hound liked to blame himself.

"You couldn't do anything as long as we were in the Red Mansion," she said. "You obeyed Joffrey. You still obey him."

_He's been doing this for so many years: obeying to the Lannisters._ As far as she knew, the Hound had always worked for them, the war he had fought in Europe being like an interlude filled with more violence and fury. And during these long months in Europe, it was about obeying the rules, , she wondered if he could choose a different path and be on his own. Perhaps his loyalty towards the Lannisters – even if he seemed to question it now – was a hurdle if she wanted to escape. _But what choice do I have?_

On an impulse, she lifted her right hand that rested in her lap, protected by layers of wool and put it on his chest. At first, it was only a soothing gesture, something meant to show the Hound she wasn't mad at him; then, as her hand came closer, she realized she wanted to touch him – out of curiosity, because his chest was so uncommonly large and probably because she felt confident enough at that moment.

Was he able to read her intentions or not? Sansa couldn't tell, but as soon as her fingers brushed his woolen waistcoat, he stiffened. _He doesn't like to be touched, she thought. Or maybe he's not used to it. Is it why he wrapped me in a blanket?_

Her hand fell on her lap and she wondered what they were talking about before._ Trant. The Red Mansion. Joffrey._ She quivered and began to sob again. Taking his crumpled handkerchief from her hands, he wiped her cheeks with careful and almost tender gestures. The more he dabbed her eyes, the more makeup stained his handkerchief; the powder but above all the mascara and even the lipstick dirtied the white fabric. She suddenly realized how ridiculous she must look, wrapped in a blanket like a child, with her makeup running down her cheeks.

"I must be ugly," she stated. "And I ruined your handkerchief."

He didn't answer and smiled a twitching half-smile. There was no lust in his gray eyes, only amusement and something more she couldn't quite identify. Without any warning, he kissed the crown of her head and mumbled _'Little Bird'. That's it. I don't know what I had in mind, but the truth comes down to this: he treats me like a pet._ Sansa sighed, slightly vexed.

The crackles of the needle against the record, after the end of the song, made her jump. She shifted, then tried to stand up; he nevertheless preempted her move and put her on her feet before walking to the phonograph.

"What was that music you always listened to when you lived in the Red Mansion?" he asked her, rummaging through the box containing her records.

"Allegri's _Miserere_," she replied. "I will cry even more if I listen to it."

"No _Miserere_ for the Little Bird tonight," he whispered to himself.

He finally picked a sleeve and placed the 78 rpm on the turntable, before going back to her. As she stood by the large leather armchair, he stopped in front of her.

"You don't want to sit down?" he asked, showing the armchair with an incline of his head.

She remained silent at first and she noticed how he casually shoved his hands in his pockets, how his chest rose and fell with every breath, how his shoulders were large. And welcoming, she thought, blushing. She soon realized she was staring at him, unbeknownst to her. She was staring and instead of mocking her like he usually did, he said nothing – he hardly shifted from foot to foot.

"No, you- you sit down," she finally answered, averting her eyes.

The Hound obeyed silently, watching her as she turned to him, then as she gingerly sat on his knees. She met his gaze, hesitation making him frown.

"Like earlier?" he asked.

She nodded. In one swift motion, he pulled her close, so that her head rested against his chest. She felt his arm wrapped around her waist and she began to hum.

"What is this song?" she asked. "Baelish offered me more records yesterday and I think I never heard this one before."

"It's called _Lovesick Blues_," he answered lazily.

_Well, I'm in love, I'm in love, with a beautiful gal_  
_That's what's the matter with me_  
_Well, I'm in love, I'm in love, with a beautiful gal_  
_But she don't care about me_

The Hound suddenly cleared his throat.

"I chose at random," he added.

_You don't need to explain yourself, do you?_ She repressed a smile, but with his chin resting on the top of her head, she doubted he could see her.

Time went by slowly as he held her in his arms; she finally told him what she remembered about her aggression – though panic and loss of consciousness wrapped her memories in a frightening haze. She explained him she didn't sleep well, nor was she able to focus on the preparations for the show. She cried once more and he wiped her tears. She even mentioned Berdokhovski and the stupid nickname she had given him, because she couldn't stand his habit to call her _'Sweet sister'_. The only topic she didn't discuss with him was Evie: Sansa admitted she had not stomached the young woman's revelations yet. She simply didn't know what to do about it. From time to time, the Hound would stand up and pick another record before going back to her.

"It's time, I have to go," he finally said.

She shook her head in denial, then watched the clock resting on the console table and sighed when she saw he was right. As she was sitting across his lap and seemingly refused to move, he brushed her cheek with his knuckles.

"I have to go, Little Bird, or else Baelish will kick me out."

_As if he could._ She frowned, thinking of all the reasons why she wanted to leave that place.

"Can't we run away tonight?" she asked, her begging tone conveying her desperation.

"No, we can't. I'm positive."

He expected her to get on her feet or at least to let him stand up but she didn't move and slightly stiffened in his arms.

"Stay."

"What?" he rasped.

"Stay. Unless you have some dirty job to do for Joff... I need you here."

She might be ugly with the makeup darkening her lower eyelids, but her pout was as convincing as ever.

"You- You can't be serious!" he stammered.

If his disconcerted look was any indication, he frantically searched his mind for an unpleasant remark that would shut her up. In the end, he probably gave up, for he shook his head in frustration.

"And how am I going to do that, girl? If I don't leave this place within a few minutes..."

"You can leave, then sneak in," she replied. "You said I'll have to sneak out using the window in my bathroom. It's the same. You'll show me how to do it."

He chuckled.

"Why do you refuse?" she insisted. "Do you have some reason to leave me here, alone...? Some reason with beautiful eyes and-"

"No," he rasped, cutting her off.

His gray eyes were serious now. She felt his muscles tense and she regretted cornering him with her questions.

"Stay, then," she whispered. "Don't make me beg you."

He swallowed hard; watching his Adam's apple rise and fell in his throat, Sansa waited for his answer, wringing her hands under the blanket.

"Alright," he said. "Show me that window again."

* * *

_Do as if you were going to bed and open your window_, he had said, before exiting her room and making noise in the staircase so that nobody could ignore he was leaving.

She immediately went to the bathroom, took off her dress and put on a nightgown, then her dressing gown – the nights were rather cold at fall and she thought it was more appropriate if the Hound spent the night in her room. She washed her face, undid her bun and plaited her long auburn hair. Then she sat on the rim of her bathtub and waited for him in the dark, as she had turned off all the lights, except the bedside lamp.

_What is he doing? What if he get caught, if someone sees him?_ She beat time, her slipper hitting the tiled floor without her noticing at first, then more nervously when she realized how anxious she was. _But what's that song?_ Sansa kept on beating time, trying to remember the title of that tune obsessing her. She hummed and finally identified _Lovesick Blues_' cheerful and jazzy phrase. Emmett Miller sang it with a falsetto voice – something the Hound probably found ridiculous and she couldn't say she loved it – but a smile pulled the corners of her lips when she remembered his embarrassment as they listened to the song.

All of a sudden, she heard noise outside and she stood up briskly before going to the French window; the Hound was climbing the fire escape. She saw him looking up at her, hurrying in the metallic staircase and she stepped aside in time so that he could come in. His figure suddenly filled the window frame and he hesitated for a second as his eyes got used to the darkness – not that the back alley was well-lit, but the nearest street lamps shone enough to provide some light to the fire escape.

"I'm here," she mumbled, standing in the corner between the washstand and the toilet bowl.

He whispered something and she heard him pant.

"Nobody saw you?" she asked. "We're lucky: Baelish is not here tonight, nor Peitho. I think he took her to some party."

He didn't answer and followed her as she walked back to her bedroom. The dim light of the bedside lamp didn't allow her to read his expression. His unblinking look, as he blocked the door with a chair – that same chair Trant had used only days before – puzzled Sansa. Focused on his task, with his long dark hair covering his features, he seemed emotionless. The Hound had nevertheless noticed how she had stiffened at the sight of the chair blocking the door, for he felt the urge to explain himself.

"Just in case that blond whore decides to come and to tuck you in," he whispered. "Tell me, girl, what would shock her: seeing me in your bedroom or knowing that you invited me?"

Planting himself in front of her, he teased her again with his fixed grin.

"She would disapprove both," Sansa retorted, "but certainly not as much as my decision to leave this place with your help. A choice I often question when I hear you talk about women. I don't like your innuendos."

He tried to stare her down, his eyes narrowing, but he finally gave up.

"If the Little Bird is angry at me, it means she's getting better. Does she still need me here?"

A hint of disdain lingered on his tone as he stepped forward, towering above her. She restrained herself from biting back some cutting remark but, in the end, the fact that neither of them wanted to answer the Hound's question lowered the pressure.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, wondering if she should take off her dressing gown or not. She decided to remove it hastily, before slipping under the covers; in the meanwhile, the Hound had grabbed the blanket he had wrapped her in earlier and he had settled himself in the leather armchair.

Staring at the ceiling, Sansa frowned when she heard him let out a deep sigh as if he readied himself to spend the night sitting in the armchair. _That's not what I wanted. And he should know it._

"You don't turn off the lights?" he asked in an undertone. "The little girl wants a dog sleeping by her side _and_ a bedside lamp?"

She sat up abruptly and looked daggers at him, wondering if he just enjoyed mocking her or if there was something else.

"While on the subject, why wouldn't you sleep by my side?"

She had spoken curtly and he gaped as she patted the edge of the bed. For a while, he hesitated, wondering about her answer: was it utter provocation, like a cheeky response to his taunting, or was she serious? In the end, he probably decided he didn't want to let the opportunity pass him by and crossed the space between the armchair and the bed, before wordlessly lying down on the bedspread.

"Your shoes," she said, before turning off the light.

She heard him remove his shoes in the dark – the rug hardly muffling the thud as he carelessly dropped them – then he rolled on one side.

* * *

**To Naleye Junior : Thank you! I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as the previous one.**


	5. Rubies or garnets?

**Thanks a lot to my beta reader Underthenorthernlights for her patience and her help!**

**Warning for foul language, racist remarks and violence.**

* * *

The mattress moved under her sleeping form and she mumbled incoherent words before opening her eyes and seeing the large back of a man sitting on the other side of the bed. The jangling of his belt completely awakened Sansa. All she could see in the pale light of daybreak was his dark hair falling on broad shoulders. Sleep had left creases on his shirt. As he bent over to put on his shoes, the mattress moved again: she remembered the events of the night and suddenly felt dizzy.

She had fallen asleep before him – she recalled that he rolled over in bed – and nightmares had spared her, for a change. Sansa had slept so well she hardly remembered the Hound slipping under the sheets during the night, because he was cold. At the back of her sleepy mind, she had kept the notion that they were very close and that she should stay in her half of the bed for fear that her attitude was misconceived. _Or mocked. Even when I offered him to stay, he taunted me. Sometimes he's a fool._

Said fool was standing up and turning to her, his shirt full of creases under his waistcoat. She turned on the light and the glass lampshade projected orange hues on the walls.

"Thought you were asleep," he whispered.

His long hair half covered his face as he looked down at her. As he swept her form, Sansa found the steel-gray eyes unreadable; squirming under his gaze, she sat up and pulled the blankets to her chin.

"Go back to sleep. Your... companions get up late. Whores are not early birds, girl."

She wondered if the situation was familiar to him, if he often spent the night in the brothel when he slept with a prostitute, or if he went back to the Red Mansion in the dead of the night._ His visits are short_, she decided, noticing his unease. That realization determined her to get up and to walk around the bed despite his protestations.

"Go back to bed immediately!" he said in an undertone. "What are you-"

Sansa was already tugging at the hem of his waistcoat, then she repressed a smile when she noticed he had buttoned the wrong hole; she tried to ignore his clenched teeth and his stiffening movement as she fixed his waistcoat.

"You don't need to do that, nobody pays attention to an old dog," he rasped.

She raised her eyes, her blue iris conveying her surprise and her irritation. I do. He watched her carefully, taking in her seriousness, then he brushed back his hair, deliberately exposing the scars, the cracks and the hole replacing his ear. _Does he think I will flinch like I did in the Red Mansion?_ The sight of his burns was certainly not a pleasant one, but it didn't terrify her anymore.

When he understood his scars had lost their effect on her, his attitude changed and a cruel smile twitched his lips; he let his eyes fall to the neckline of her nightgown. As he leered at her shamelessly, taking his time, his look lingering on her breasts, her hips and he seemingly enjoying her embarrassment, she averted her gaze and stepped back. Until now, she couldn't stand being watched like this – it didn't matter if it was the Hound or another man – and he knew it: Sansa wondered if she would someday get used to this situation and if it would be a good change or not.

Despite the unpleasant sensation that her cheeks were hot enough to warm up the bedroom, she followed him as he took his overcoat, then walked to the bathroom.

"Go back to bed," he insisted, without even looking at her.

"No, wait. When will you come back?"

During his previous visits, Sansa had asked if he would come back, not when. She realized it afterward and she bit her lip. How would he take her question? Would he find her too confident about her beauty, her drawing power? Would he brutally remind her that she was just a girl among hundreds of women who were prettier and much more brazen with men? The Hound stopped mid-stride, his overcoat hanging on his arm; turning to face her, he took the time to put on the warm garment before answering.

"Don't know yet. You're quite popular and I'm busy. And you're expensive, girl. You have no idea."

On that note, he resumed watching her, his eyes roaming over her curves as if he didn't know when he would see her again.

"You can sneak in," she replied. "Like last night."

As soon as she uttered those words, she felt terribly stupid; she sounded shameless and he could take this as an encouragement to eye her again. He repressed a laugh.

"Listen to you, Little Bird. Two or three weeks in a whorehouse and you tell me how I can sneak in and sneak out. What's next? Are you going to teach me how to break a man's knees or how to dispose of a body?"

"It's not funny."

Sansa pouted but she was relieved he didn't seize the opportunity to make her cringe with some innuendo. He opened the window and had already reached the platform of the fire escape; facing her, he brushed her cheek with his knuckles.

"I'll come back," he said in an undertone. "Soon. Now I've got things to sort out."

_Like our flight?_ No matter how the prospect thrilled her, Sansa reluctantly let him go. She observed him as he went downstairs; she saw his massive figure through the ladder of the fire escape, neatly at first, then almost disappearing behind the metallic layers. When he reached the ground, he briskly walked away and she didn't know if he had looked at her before hurrying to the Red Mansion.

Shutting the window, she went back to her bedroom and stopped in front of the four-poster bed; instead of going to what she could call _her_ side of the bed, she purposefully slid her hand under the covers where he had slept. The sheets were still warm: on an impulse, she pushed the blankets and lied down. Under her back, she felt the remains of his warmth the mattress had kept so far. He had spent the night there, lying on one side or staring at the ceiling, while she slept peacefully. His head rested on that pillow as he had finally begun to snore – now she remembered that detail. It was a strange sensation to recline where he had slept and to feel against her skin the little warmth that he had left in the sheets: as she snuggled up on the bed, she could imagine he was still there, by her side.

* * *

In Baelish's house, some rules were set in stone. Long before Peitho became the madam, mornings were dedicated to chores and all the girls were supposed to help clean the rooms. Two by two, they opened the windows, stripped the beds and beat rugs; they didn't tidy their own room. Following Peitho's orders, each pair of girls cleaned the other inhabitants'.

"Here we are," Jo sighed, when the madam was out of reach. "The influence of socialism and collectivism. You don't clean your room, but your neighbor's. One day, the snooty Russian is going to tell me I'll share my wardrobe with Dorothy or Lois."

"You never know with Reds. Maybe Peitho will tell us to share men," Meg suggested, chuckling. "I'd rather take Viola's or Edna's regular customers, in this case!"

"What do you think, Sansa?" Jo asked her abruptly. "Would you share your elegant Russian customer or the creepy one with us, if Peitho turns this place into a bolshevik brothel?"

Sansa doubted Peitho, who placed a value on private property could be a communist but the notion of sharing the Hound with someone else made her blush deeply. Her embarrassment raised a smile from the girls.

Sansa evaded chores and only had to tidy her own room basically before the old cook did the housework: Peitho had decided after her arrival that Sansa would help her dress and do her hair instead of cleaning, unintentionally giving the girls another motive to envy Baelish's protege. Thus, Sansa knocked at Peitho's door every morning and combed her long golden hair while the madam talked with her.

Peitho usually did all the talking, telling stories about her stay in Paris or giving the girl advice about men, as she was sitting in front of her dressing table. At some point – most often when her hair was done and when she began to think of the jewels she wanted to wear – Peitho invariably asked her about the dance routine she was working on.

That morning, as she did her best to forget her arguments with the Hound and the confusing twist of their relationship, Sansa struggled with Peitho's low chignon. She had to start over twice before getting a satisfactory result.

"What's wrong with you today, child?" Peitho inquired, putting a protective hand on Sansa's wrist.

They were in front of the large mirror of the madam's dressing table, the girl standing behind Peitho and fearing that she could notice her turmoil.

"I think I'm nervous."

"I can see that!" the madam exclaimed, looking insistently at Sansa's reflection on the mirror and boring into her blue eyes. "Why is that? Are you afraid of singing on stage?"

"Of course I am," Sansa replied, taking the ball on the hop.

She searched her mind to change the subject and she suddenly had an epiphany. _For a change._

"Your dress is almost ready, Peitho," she announced, smiling. "I'd like you to try it on."

Still sitting on her chair, the blond woman turned around and casually rested her elbow on the back of her seat.

"You finished it?" she exclaimed.

Her dark eyes shone with a childish delight at the thought of having a new dress. Sansa ran to her bedroom, took the black dress she had altered, then went back to the madam's room. As soon as the girl closed the door, Peitho took off the spectacular kimono she wore as a dressing gown. The silken fabric with a crane flying over cherry branches fell to the floor and Sansa averted her eyes when she saw the madam only had her 'step-in' panties on.

"Oh, come on, child," Peitho protested. "There's no need for ceremony between us."

While she fought her natural tendency to blush whenever someone offended her modesty, Sansa pondered on the blond woman's attitude; Peitho never left anything to chance and there had to be a reason why she planted herself half-naked in front of the girl, a large grin on her face. Sansa convinced herself she would mock her prudery; she therefore almost gaped when the madam brushed her cheek.

"You're so lovely," Peitho said with a hint of foreign accent.

"I thought you would laugh at me again, because I always blush."

"That's adorable, Sansa. I know we had that conversation before and I told you it was stupid, but I changed my mind. The strict education you received is certainly your best asset, even in our shady world."

"The other girls always point out to me how I blush and how naïve I am," the girl complained.

"That's because they envy you!"

"It doesn't feel like it when they tease me."

The blond woman took Sansa's hand and led her to her huge closet. Standing behind the girl and holding her upper arms, she gestured at the cheval mirror, next to the wardrobe.

"What do you see, child?"

"Me. Blushing."

When Peitho stood up half-naked in front of her, Sansa could avert her gaze or look at her straight in the eyes; it was much more difficult to ignore her bare chest when she had to observe their reflection.

"I'm going to tell you what I see, then," the blond woman said in a whisper. "I see a young and beautiful girl, elegant and polite, who dances and sings better than some of the artists I know. You're young, that's why the girls envied you at first. Then they noticed how well-mannered you are. That's why some of them are jealous of you. You possess something they'll never have. When they mock your red cheeks and your scandalized look, they do it out of jealousy. No matter how hard they try, 'elegance' is not the word a man would associate with Viola or Mary."

Peitho stepped aside and turned slightly to face the girl.

"You know I tried to teach them good manners, when I arrived, a year ago?" she asked Sansa. "I soon felt helpless and I gave up... Edna almost looks the part for five minutes before a customer notices she's a silly goose, but the rest of them is a lost cause, if you want my opinion. So when I saw you, I understood Baelish had found a gem, a girl who would become a courtesan instead of being a whore. You know what is a courtesan, right?"

"I've heard that word before," Sansa shyly answered.

"In Paris, before the Great War, some prostitutes were much more than common whores," Peitho explained. "They gave parties, hosted influential men and even inspired artists. Some of them were more famous than writers and painters of the time: that's what I call a courtesan. None of us can look like a girl of eighteen forever, but if you're smart and well-educated, you can last in this trade. Even a beautiful girl like Viola will be forgotten the day her breasts sag. You and I are different. We're graceful – Viola would say classy – and... we're smarter. The day I saw you, I said to myself we were the same."

The same? Sansa found it difficult not to make a face and she tried to smile back at the blond woman whose minimalist outfit – ivory satin panties, silver bracelet and feathered slippers – was at odds with her own idea of elegance.

Even if she took pride in the certainty that she was different from Peitho, Sansa admitted that she had a good point about the girls' attitude toward her.

"It's easy to teach you how to be more confident," Peitho added. "A few more weeks and you'll be in your element, but trust me: turning Jo or Meg into perfect ladies is a long-term job... Look at you: I'm here, half-naked in front of you and you don't blush anymore."

Sighing, she turned around and slipped on the dress Sansa had altered for her. _Am I really going to get used to this?_

"You'll rule your own place, someday," Peitho promised. "Or you'll be an influential man's mistress. I don't know yet."

With her thin legs and small breasts, the madam still had a youthful figure. One could see her fair skin was perhaps not as smooth as before, but Baelish's mistress was beyond doubt an attractive woman. When she spun on her heels so that Sansa saw how the dress looked on her; the girl smiled encouragingly and stepped aside, leaving the madam in front of the mirror.

"Not so bad," Sansa said. "I mean the dress... You, you look beautiful."

Peitho's triumphant smile when she saw her reflection was the best reward the girl could imagine. The last tableau of the show evoked fairy tales' heroins and the madam had asked Sansa to make her look like an enchantress; the girl had chosen an old black dress with a simple and straight cut to transform it. She had sewed seed beads on the straps and long lines of sequins on the dress, contrasting with the velvety fabric. The hem had given her a hard time: she wanted to create a sort of train, and therefore had used shreds of black and gray silk. Dozens of tatters had been necessary to give the illusion that the madam didn't walk like common people but almost floated inches above the ground.

"Can you walk?" Sansa asked. "Do you think you can move without stepping on the train?"

When Peitho faced her, she seemed a bit vexed that the girl questioned her ability to walk without ruining the dress.

"This is amazing, Sansa. I already feel like a witch."

She opened her arms and hugged the girl.

"I took it upon myself and began to make a sort of cloak," Sansa explained as the madam let go of her. "You'll look more mysterious with it."

"Now I feel like a spoiled child!" Peitho protested. "But what kind of jewels am I going to wear with this outfit?"

She slowly walked to the dressing table, opened one of the drawers containing her jewel boxes and sighed.

"Sansa, a suggestion?"

"Hmm... Something red, to contrast with your black dress."

Peitho retrieved two small boxes from the drawer and put them on the dressing table.

"Help me, child. We have rubies and garnets: earrings and necklace, in both cases."

Sansa helped her with the necklace while she tried the dangle earrings. Both sets of jewels looked beautiful and would be perfect on stage, to Peitho's great confusion.

"How can I choose?" she complained. "Sansa, you decide: rubies or garnets?"

Sansa hesitated, watching the madam who looked at her reflection in the mirror.

"Why wear garnets when you can have rubies?" she finally offered.

Peitho turned around to give her a surprised and admiring look: she clearly didn't expect such a comment from Sansa. The girl's bearing didn't completely matched the haughtiness her words conveyed but Peitho loved that new side of Sansa's personality. _That's what Cersei would have answered_, she mused. Once more, the changes she went through puzzled her and she quickly left, claiming she had to finish Peitho's cloak.

Sansa sought peace and privacy in her bedroom and instantly frowned when she saw the cook inside; the old woman daily cleaned her room, but at this hour of the morning, nothing explained her presence upstairs.

"Can we talk?" the cook asked her, once Sansa had shut the door.

The old woman stood near the four-poster bed, her hands folded, the dirty sheets forming a heap at her feet. She was shorter than Sansa, with a stumpy figure and a wrinkled face; her thin grayish hair formed a small bun.

"I can help you."

Sansa noticed for the first time how determined her pale blue eyes looked. She knew the cook didn't stay to talk with her unless there was some serious matter and she had quite an idea of how the woman could help her, yet she refused to yield so easily. _With Joffrey and Cersei, you never know. She could spy for them._

"What are you talking about?" she asked her coldly.

The cook stepped forward.

"I saw what that man did to you. You don't remember it, but I was there when Jo opened the door. You can't stay here."

Her eyes, her seriousness, even the way she shook her head seemed sincere, but Sansa had been deluding herself so cruelly during the past two years her distrust bordered on paranoia. If the Hound had born the consequences of her suspiciousness, there was no reason why she would take the old cook's word for it.

"If Joffrey Baratheon sent me here, I'm not supposed to leave this house. I belong here now."

"You don't trust me?" the woman said, her eyes widening in disbelief.

"Why would I? You work for Mister Baelish and Baelish works for Joffrey."

Shrugging, Sansa walked to the console table where she had left her needlework; the black fabric of Peitho's cloak stood out against the red satin of her own mantle.

"I'm from Minnesota, as well."

Sansa repressed a laugh and turned to her.

"So that's the reason why I should trust you?" she told the old woman. "Frankly, what do you plan to do? How would you help me go back to Saint-Paul, supposing you're not a liar?"

"I don't know yet. I just decided I would help you if I could."

Her wrinkled face expressed the utter embarrassment of someone who wanted to play the part of a hero but who found out the costume was a bit too big. Sansa suddenly feared her determination would weaken if the cook stayed any longer.

"What's your name?" she asked the old woman.

"People call me Rose. I was born in a village north of Saint-Paul, that's why-"

"I have to think about it, Rose," Sansa cut her off. "I'll let you know once I've made my decision."

She could see in the faded blue eyes that the woman took it badly and rued her hesitation; Rose nevertheless left the bedroom after picking the heap of dirty linen.

* * *

She had slept, shielded by his massive form: that idea and the memories of that night – the Hound's snoring, their argument, the sensation of going back to sleep in his half of the bed – invaded her mind and didn't give her any respite. No matter how hard she tried to busy herself with her needlework, the image of the Hound leaving the armchair to lie down on the bed, next to her, came back when she didn't expect it.

Disheartened by her lack of willpower, she finally went downstairs for the rehearsal. The girls were already in the meeting hall, gathered around the piano and Sansa wondered why her companions had found some interest in music. Viola and several other girls' giggling gave her a clue. _A man. Why would girls who don't understand anything to music and say they despise artists suddenly flock together if not for a man?_ Sansa bit her lip, realizing afterward what a sharp tongue she sometimes had. She nonetheless came closer. Edna lectured everyone and told them to get back to their tasks. Edna was a splendid woman in her late twenties, with black bobbed hair and big blue eyes; though she was not very talkative, the other girls always respected her. Her intervention allowed Sansa to catch a glimpse at the girls' center of attention.

Behind the upright piano, a young man with sandy hair smiled while searching a pile of musical scores. Under Edna's orders, the girls scattered across the meeting hall, some climbing on stage while others waited or chatted together. Sansa stayed a few yards from the piano, observing the visitor. He was hardly older than her, he had handsome features and something about him revealed he was well aware of his attraction. The young musician suddenly raised his eyes from the keyboard and met Sansa's gaze.

"Do you remember me?" he asked, grinning.

Sansa hesitated for a few seconds, trying to recall where she could have seen this man, but neither his tenor voice nor his good looks seemed familiar.

"New Year's Eve, at the Red Mansion," he said. "The Baratheons – the Lannisters I should say now – hosted a party. I was with the band. Of course, you don't _remember_ me. I was just part of the furniture, at that time. But things change."

He looked at her insistently, as if taking cognizance of her fall. Sansa felt ill-at-ease and quickly walked away, joining Edna who wanted to keep a close watch on the girls' dancing routine. The pianist began to play.

"You're too slow, Meg!" Edna shouted across the large room. "You have to work on it for tomorrow night. God, Sansa, I hope your rendition of _You'd be surprised_ will be better."

No one had heard her except Sansa, who sighed deeply. She didn't like the pianist's penetrating gaze; from the corner of her eyes, she saw him staring at her while playing _Hot Lips_.

"Well, I don't like his rendition of the song," the girl commented. "It's supposed to be a Foxtrot, not a battle hymn."

Edna rolled her eyes when she heard Sansa complaining; she turned to her and tilted her head.

"Oh, please, Sansa, we all know you're a music-lover, but Peitho had had enough difficulties to find a decent band so... don't ruin everything. And I'm sure it will be better once the other musicians are here. Look, the girls already love him."

Seemingly amused, Edna pointed at Viola who did her best to attract the young man's attention, standing by his side and whispering into his ear.

"What's his name by the way?" Sansa asked.

"Marillion, but I don't remember the band's name. Who cares, after all? It's just a bunch of penniless musicians, like so many other bands in New York."

_Marillion? What kind of name is that?_

"Your turn, now," Edna told her as the piano went silent. "Make us proud."

"He'd better not butcher Irving Berlin's music," Sansa mumbled to herself.

She walked to the stage, while the dancers hurried to the armchairs, as if the rehearsal had drained their energy, and she deliberately ignored Marillion's grin.

* * *

"We're just copying from the _Ziegfeld Follies_, on Broadway," Viola spat. "Except nobody knows us and we're neither dancers nor singers."

Half an hour before the beginning of the show, tension filled Baelish's house, unnerving the most even-tempered girls, making some of them hysterical and plunging the brothel into utter chaos. Sansa herself felt like she didn't remember the lyrics of the songs she was supposed to sing, nor the dancing routine she had worked so hard on. The cluster of women gathered in the meeting hall turned to Peitho, waiting for her reaction after Viola's remark. _This is mutiny._ A hush fell over the girls as they saw the madam calmly staring at Viola.

"While I sing a song or while Sansa dances, you'll entertain our customers. I don't think they have girls like you to entertain the audience, out there," the blond madam said with a coaxing smile.

"I'm sorry Peitho, but my cousin told me some of the girls dancing in this show often end up in bed with members of the audience," Edna pointed out. "I've heard some pretty nasty things happen offstage."

As she never talked all over the place, Edna's advice was generally approved. Her remark about the loose morals of the _Ziegfeld Follies_ dancers made her companions whisper.

"Why would they come here, then?" Viola exclaimed. "If they can watch better dancers and fuck them for free after the show, why in hell would they come here? Where are the customers?" She showed the large room with a sweeping gesture. "It's almost time and nobody's here!"

Though she was not fond of the dark-haired girl, Sansa admitted she was right: the emptiness of the meeting hall so few minutes before the opener – only the girls and Marillion's jazz band occupied the huge room – was nothing less than depressing. Around Viola, the girls prattled, convinced that the brunette could be right. Peitho stiffened a bit and Sansa wondered how the madam would get herself out of the situation.

"Well..." the blond woman began, casually bringing her hands on her hips, "if a man can spend the night with one of these dancers for free, it probably means they're not what you would call a good fuck, dear." Peitho swayed her hips toward Viola and planted herself in front of her, a seductive smile on her lips. "Men will gladly pay their entrance tickets because we are who we are. Right, girls?"

As the girls started to laugh, Viola's eyes darkened with frustration.

"She's got you there!" Jo shouted, patting Viola's back.

At the other end of the meeting hall, a whistling surprised everyone. Sansa turned to see a group of five men coming in and eying the girls – the first customers of their first show. Instead of taking advantage of the men's arrival to humiliate Viola, Peitho sent the girls to the wings set up behind the stage and welcomed the visitors.

The show began late that night, because men regularly came in. From the wings where she waited with Meg, Sansa watched their arrival one by one or in small groups. There were rich men, old or young, some who postured and also men who probably belonged to the shady world of bootleggers. Once in the meeting hall, they wiped their face and some shook their coat, thus showing the rain was pouring outside.

Marillion's band – a jazz band of nine musicians – played cheerful tunes until Marillion himself hurried into the wings, causing more agitation than necessary among the girls.

"What's the opener?" he asked nervously. "Peitho told me it was _You'd be surprised_, then Edna told me it had to be a tableau-"

Sansa steadily put up her hand, as if she was at school.

"The opener is _You'd be surprised_," she answered, repressing a nervous shiver. "I'm the one who sings that song."

* * *

Meryn Trant had always hated staking out people who were indebted with Cersei.

Staying in a car for hours and observing someone's comings and goings was a bloody stupid way of spending his nights. He usually had difficulties in knowing what Cersei had in mind; did she want information about the target or did she expect him to threaten the dickhead who had forgotten where his loyalties lied? Was he supposed to stay in hiding or should he make himself seen, so that the moron shitted his pants? Meryn had no idea and he therefore spent his time cursing silently in the black Oldsmobile 45A, after pulling over in the darkest corner of the street.

Once the stake out began, he had nothing to do except stare at the store front and wait for the owner to make a mistake: if the fool talked to one of the Lannisters' rivals, or even worse, to the police, he knew what he had to do. As soon as the man would be alone, Meryn would open the car door and he would walk to the shop before his prey had enough time to close. He didn't know what he preferred: the moment when he felt his shoulder holster, hidden under his overcoat or the terrified look of the man he was about to harm. _Or to kill._

Sometimes the man he stalked had pissed Cersei off and she didn't care if Meryn killed him or not. Sometimes she even wanted him dead. Meryn's main problem was to decide when her orders had not been clear enough. Like the other day, with that nigger who owned a small café in Jamaica. _Cersei should have told me she just wanted me to beat the crap out of him. He can't complain anymore, now._

He froze his ass off in the Oldsmobile. Even if it was a rather new model with its windshield wiper and comfortable seats, it didn't change anything when he had to spend the night inside at the beginning of winter; November was pretty chilly and Meryn mindlessly rubbed his gloved hands.

Two flappers moved past the car, trying to avoid puddles on the sidewalk and providing a welcome distraction: one was tall and bony but the other one, a short brunette, had a pretty ass. Both wore evening dresses and silk stockings, but the short one's fur revealed her curves while the lanky girl was wrapped in her woolen coat. At some point, the tall one glanced over her shoulder and saw him staring behind the windshield. Meryn smiled a crooked smile, removing the toothpick from his mouth, but the snooty girl looked offended and lengthened her strides while her companion protested and tried to catch up with her. As the short one suddenly sped up, Meryn couldn't get his eyes off of her rounded buttocks; she diverted his attention until both women disappeared at the corner of the street. Meryn sighed in frustration and settled back in his seat.

_A whore, I need a whore._ He should be having fun in some brothel instead of being bored to death near the entrance of a speakeasy. Even the place where he had to stake out reminded him of his needs. Why couldn't he get out of the car, go in and have a drink? He would have killed for some gin. For a second, he fancied himself inside, sipping alcohol and eying the girls who wiggled their asses in front of the jazz band. Thrill seekers, inevitably; he would give them what they wanted... He shook his head, a pained expression on his face as his cock hardened. Cersei had been adamant: she wanted him to keep a close eye of the owner and to remind him of his obligations towards the Lannisters. Meryn couldn't infringe her orders.

What Jenkings, the _Alexandria_'s owner, had done to fall into disfavor, he didn't know and he couldn't care less. The Kettleblacks had whispered something about the last delivery which Jenkings had refused to pay, but Osmund and Osney were so dumb, one should never take for granted what they say. Most of the time, Meryn didn't need to know precisely what the man had done: giving a kick up his ass or just showing up after the shutting had cured the man's amnesia. Some even confessed things Meryn never asked them about. Fear was certainly efficient against memory lapses; thus, Meryn generally ignored why his evening hosts were on bad terms with the Lannisters but it never prevented him from doing his job.

More customers came in and left under the pale light of street lamps, forcing Meryn to watch them carefully: if that asshole who owned the _Alexandria_ slipped away, Cersei would have a fit. Cersei had lost her favorite punching bag the day Joffrey had given Sansa Stark to Baelish. _And since nature abhors a vacuum..._ He didn't want Cersei to get angry at him.

His thoughts went back to Sansa Stark. Though young Myrcella was more his kind of girl with her blond hair, Meryn admitted that the Stark girl was a delicious eye candy. _And Myrcella is Cersei's daughter, so... hands off._ The red-haired was rather interesting despite her knack to make wrong choices: a pretty girl with nobody to turn to, now that her old man was dead. Meryn had had a foretaste when Joffrey asked him to beat her; she had all of her pieces in the right place. Nobody would complain if someone played doctor with her... or so he had told himself before these crazy women kicked him out of the brothel.

_But the girl..._ His cock twitched at the memory of her body exposed to him once he had carried her on the bed. She was even more mouth-watering when she panicked and he would go back to Baelish's brothel, if only to watch her doe-eyed stare and the tears that welled up in her eyes when she was terrified.

Meryn cursed as a hammering downpour began. He activated the windshield wiper, so as to catch a glimpse at the people who exited the _Alexandria_. A couple left the speakeasy, the man trying to protect his girlfriend's head with his overcoat and both laughing exasperatingly under the rain.

_Fuck, I can't see anything._ Despite the windshield wiper, Meryn's vision was blurred. _Freezing, bored to death and unable to see anything thanks to the rain... a fucking night. Frankly, at my age, after years of good and faithful service, the Lannisters could spare me that kind of shitty missions..._

He suddenly gaped when he saw a figure leaving the _Alexandria_. At first, he wasn't sure, because the pouring rain, combined to darkness, prevented him from seeing the details, but that tailor-made suit claiming his owner was a fashionable man and that gray fedora belonged to Jenkings himself. A smile pulled the corner of Meryn's lips as he opened the car door and silently followed his prey. Jenkings, a slightly overweight middle-sized man, hurried himself on the sidewalk, shoulders hunched up and head down even if his umbrella sheltered him from the icy rain shower. Meryn loved that sort of man whose fears and uncertainties showed through the most common gestures.

Jenkings turned right in a back alley and thirty feet behind him, Meryn couldn't believe he had such a good fortune. _That jerk is leading me to the perfect place to get killed._ Despite the pouring rain, Jenkings heard something, for he abruptly turned around and looked at Meryn, who immediately touched his shoulder holster through the thick woolen fabric of his overcoat. At that moment, when his victim saw him, he felt like an actor making his entrance. And it was a dramatic entrance if Jenkings' terrified gaze was any indication: the baby-faced man was as pale as the thin white stripes on his suit. After a short while, Meryn stepped forward so that Jenkings could identify him.

"You- you work for the Lannisters," the chubby man stammered.

It sounded like a statement, not like a question. Meryn repressed a laugh.

"What do you want?" he went on, shaking like a leaf under his umbrella.

"I'm sure you know what I want."

_You'd better remember, as I don't know myself what the fuck you've done!_ Rain trickled down his face, wetting his collar and putting Meryn's patience to the test. He didn't want to stay any longer in that back alley, freezing under the rain. _I should have palmed this mission off to one of the Kettleblacks._ He stepped forward again and shoved the man. Jenkings lost his balance and dropped the umbrella while leaning against the nearest brick wall. _Too easy. It would be perfect if the fucking rain stopped._

"What do you want?" the terrified man insisted, trying to catch hold of the fedora that had fallen in a puddle. "I'm sure we can find an agreement."

"Why don't you pay Cersei?" Meryn asked, grabbing the man's collar and pinning him to the wall.

As he squeezed Jenkings' neck, the man began to gasp.

"I- I swear I don't owe her anything."

_Fuck._ The moron seemed too frightened not to be sincere. _So what is it?_

"Why would she send me here if you're not indebted with her?" Meryn growled.

The question was directed to himself more than to Jenkings.

"I don't know. I swear!" the man squeaked.

His lack of a satisfactory answer infuriated Meryn. Squeezing hard, he made the Alexandria's owner suffocate. As the man rolled his eyes and panicked, the old sensation came back. It was not as good as fucking a woman, but that, that impression that he had someone's life in his hands, that he could do anything... Meryn had not felt like that since his visit to Sansa Stark in Baelish's brothel.

All-might intoxicated him, like Sansa's futile resistance the other day. When Jenkings stopped flailing, he let go with him and the man collapsed on the ground, splashing Meryn's shoes as his legs ended up in a puddle. Instinctively, Meryn kicked his ribs and the man coughed. He doesn't even try to resist. Another kick didn't soothe his nerves: he felt like he needed something he couldn't quite express. Release tension, get rid of Cersei's disdain which frustrated him so much? _I'm going to kill that scumbag and then I'll go back to the brothel._

Sliding a hand under his overcoat, he reached the holster and took his gun. _Just to have fun._ As he squatted in front of Jenkings, the man's eyes widened and he gaped at the sight of the weapon.

"Speak," Meryn ordered. "Tell me why Cersei sent me."

Now the pathetic idiot lying on the ground wept and shook his head. Meryn eased the barrel in Jenkings' full lips, opening his own mouth in a mocking gesture. The man who was ten minutes earlier the successful owner of a well-known speakeasy had turned into a frightened little girl.

"Speak!"

With the barrel in his mouth, Jenkings dared not to move, for fear his assailant would fire accidentally. He forgot about the safety, Meryn mused. With unhurried gestures, he shifted slightly and removed the safety, enjoying the mans frantic glances at the metallic sound. _And I'm lucky: the rain finally stopped_, he thought.

_What are you going to do with the body?_ That interrogation popped up in his mind as if reality suddenly caught up with him: his inability to answer dampened his spirits. The car was fucking too far and the man weighed too much. And Cersei had said she wanted them to leave no trace. Dumping the body anywhere the police could easily found it was out of the question.

Reluctantly, he removed the barrel of Jenkings' mouth – to the man's great surprise – and, keeping the gun in his hand, he waved it under his nose.

"You'd better remember where your loyalties lie," he said, threatening.

He liked how his voice sounded and he loved the effect it produced on Jenkings: the man nodded eagerly, even if something in his eyes revealed he didn't understand. Then, without any other warning, Jenkings gaped and shielded his head with his arm.

"What the fuck are you-"

Meryn didn't have a chance to finish his sentence; someone threw himself on him and they both rolled about on the wet ground._ Who the fuck is this? I didn't know Jenkings had a bodyguard..._ The stranger punched him so forcefully he saw stars. An elbow shot made him yell and, in his peripheral vision, he caught sight of Jenkings, who sat up, leaning against the wall and staring at the scene. After a few seconds, the _Alexandria_'s owner crawled to the place where Meryn had dropped his gun and grabbed it.

"I don't know what you want," Jenkings explained hesitatingly.

Whether he was addressing to him or to the third man, Meryn couldn't tell.

"Don't give a fuck about you," the stranger rasped. "You can go, for all I care."

His husky voice was thick with alcohol. Meryn seized the opportunity and contorted himself to reach the knife he kept in his boots; before the man pinning him to the ground could react, he dug the knife in his arm. The man got on his feet abruptly; though he managed to stay in a dark area of the back alley, his massive figure blocked the way. Meryn saw the broad shoulders, as the man cradled his wounded arm, and he noticed how the stranger seemed to catch his breath before throwing himself on him. _What kind of beast is this?_

The man stepped forward and Meryn's eyes widened. His assailant had brushed his long hair aside, revealing the ugliest facial scars Meryn had seen in his life. _Clegane? How is it possible?_ His ragged breath and his feverish gaze suggested the rage that had taken hold of him.

"Come on, Clegane. It's me, Trant-"

A violent blow sent him to the ground. Pain washed over him and the icy bite of steel against his throat was the last thing he felt before losing conscience.


	6. Little Red Riding Hood

**Thanks again to my beta reader, Underthenorthernlights, for her help!**

**Warning for adult themes and some dub con.  
**

* * *

Sansa thought these three weeks she had spent in a brothel had been her worst experience; she believed Meryn Trant's visit would haunt her sleepless nights for the rest of her life, she considered that except the trauma of her parents' death – and perhaps the danger lurking in the darkness, threatening Robb's life – nothing else could happen to her. At some point, she had come to think that the Hound would help her escape before anything worse occurred. She had convinced herself the show was much better for her safety, that the yards between the stage and the front-row seats would protect her, but she had obviously forgotten one thing: the show they had prepared for days didn't take place in any theater. They were in a brothel.

The fact that Jo and Mary were busy in the refreshment area didn't bother her – to be honest, it had irritated her when one of the customers had laughed noisily during Sansa's rendition of _'You'd Be Surprised_ '– but the way Viola and some other girls entertained men had shocked her._ I should have known, I should have anticipated this._

Still, she had blushed at the sight of one of the girls sitting down in the lap of a customer, remembering the Hound's last visit. Then, when the man – a rather old man she knew she had met in the Red Mansion – had pinched the girl's cheeks and had begun to fondle her, Sansa had understood she would never forget that scene, nor the utter shock she had felt. Five minutes later, the man with a girl in his lap was almost a piece of furniture when she had sung _'What I'll Do'.'_She could almost ignore the couple and at the same time, her ability to adapt herself to these new surroundings infuriated her. _It's like renunciation. Father would be so sad. Sad and disappointed._

Out of respect for the makeup Peitho had applied on her face, she wiped her tears carefully once in the wings. Later on, she rued the foolish idea that made her peer between the curtains; a girl – she didn't know who it was, and she didn't wish to know – knelt in front of a customer's open legs and the man settled back in his seat. What followed, she couldn't describe it. Even days after, she knew she wouldn't be able to think about it without feeling sick. The girl's wanton attitude, the ecstatic look on the customer's face as he tilted his head back: everything was at odds with what she expected from physical love.

When she was sixteen, Sansa thought she would later spend her nights with a loving husband able to reassure her, a man whose main concerns would be her feelings and the children they both wanted. She believed a man took care of his wife. That incident, incongruous and obscene, showed her she would never get accustomed to that life.

All of a sudden, she understood what the Hound had meant when he had offered her the books: somehow, he knew she would need them, as a virtual way to escape, as a momentary break in the long days she spent locked in the brothel. Her life was in danger with people such as Trant, she could be physically hurt any day, however there was an insidious threat she had overlooked so far: her mind and her soul could be damaged too, broken beyond repair by the things she saw everyday and above all, by the kind of relationship girls and customers had inside Baelish's house. Alienation and emotional abuse were as dangerous as mistreatment, perhaps even more: they left no trace.

She wished she was in her bedroom, alone with her book of poetry, and clenched her teeth. Girls danced and sang on stage, coming back in the wings while a round of applause recognized their talent – or their ability to unveil their charms. The show went on, until Sansa sang _'There'll Be Some Changes Made'.'_She had chosen it after the Hound's visit, because when listening to the song with him, the lyrics had struck her. The song was not new: Sansa had bought that record two years before, a few weeks after her arrival in New York. However, she had never paid much attention to that tune, nor to the disenchantment the lyrics conveyed; interpreting that song was a personal challenge, as it stirred her to tears.

When she arrived on stage, she did her best to ignore the girls engaged in heavy petting with the customers and focused on the music Marillion and his musicians played. Peitho had told her she could be a little more daring since the show drew to an end. It meant she could wiggle to the front-row's great pleasure, but what she had witnessed earlier had been enough: she simply sang that song, trying to be as sincere as she could.

_I'm going to change my way of living if that ain't enough,  
Then I'll change the way I strut my stuff  
Cause nobody wants you when you're old and gray.  
There'll be some changes made today, there'll be some changes made._

She had to admit that Marillion was not as bad a musician as she had told Edna. Carried away by enthusiasm, the musicians sped up the tempo and she felt in harmony with the band if not with the audience.

As she sang the last verse, a roaring laughter disturbed the fragile equilibrium between Sansa's voice and the music; in the front-row, she saw Viola chuckling with a customer. The dark-haired girl's inconsiderateness combined with a hint of smug satisfaction, when she met Sansa's eyes, left little room for questions: Viola had done this on purpose. Cut to the quick, the girl decided she wouldn't let Viola push her around anymore. During the next act – a pantomime which gave the girls enough time to prepare before the last tableau evoking the fairy tales – she would ask Viola why she had ruined the end of her song.

Once in the wings, she silently took off the evening dress she wore while singing and donned the simpler outfit of Little Red Riding Hood. The red satin cloak she had tailored herself stood out against her white dress and apron. Next to her, half-naked versions of Cinderella and Rapunzel readied themselves, as Peitho slipped into her new black dress. _At least, someone perfectly embodies her role._ The madam looked regal and enigmatic in her black outfit, whereas the bunch of fairy tales heroins were simply pathetic.

In the end, Viola arrived out of breath and Cinderella helped her with her costume – the dark-haired girl played the role of Snow-White.

"What did you do?" Sansa asked her, putting all her energy and her anger in these few words.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Viola replied, a mischievous smile on her lips.

"She nibbled at that customer's ear," Rapunzel commented, combing her long wig and looking down at her plunging neckline. "It was mean to do that to you, kid."

"Let's say I showed you how things work here," Viola said. "Stop thinking you're superior. Men were falling asleep during your song, by the way."

"They were not! You're jealous, that's all!" Sansa almost shouted, forgetting the rule about silence in the wings.

Peitho quickly intervened, separating the girls who seemed ready to fight it out. One hand on Viola's shoulder and the other one on Sansa's upper arm, she firmly spoke in an undertone.

"No cat-fight under my roof. Is that clear?"

It was time to go back on stage: the girls looked daggers at each other and Sansa heard some of the other ones chuckling as she moved past them. The last tableau was a tasteless evocation of the fairy tales, a display of flesh, almost a catalog of the beauties Baelish's house offered. The vulgar, obscene act went on, as the enchantress – Peitho herself – introduced the heroines one after the other. Men whistled at Snow-White and laughed when Cinderella hiked up her skirt so that the fat prince – Jo, disguised as a man – helped her try on the glass slipper. Sansa, as Little Red Riding Hood, only had to carry a basket and to greet the audience. _I act as a foil._ It didn't bother her; she just wished the show ended and she could run to her bedroom.

She didn't lose time, when the final curtain went down. Instead of asking if she could help, she hastily climbed the stairs and hurried to her room, still wearing her red satin cloak. She could hear couples laughing on the landing and on the third floor, still she didn't pay much attention and closed the door behind her, exhaling. Without turning on the light, she leaned back against the door, and hit the wooden panel with the back of her head.

Sansa could tell herself nothing of this was real, neither the silly costume she wore, nor the scenes she had witnessed that night, nor the muffled sound of giggling on the third floor. She could throw herself on the bed, cry herself to sleep and finally cling to the idea that the next day would be different. _I can do that, but is it what I want? I know things will be the same tomorrow. Or even worse._

All of a sudden, the attraction for the balcony she had felt two weeks before came back; she wasn't sure she wanted to kill herself, but she certainly wished to feel fresh air on her skin and to see the city lights, like thousands of stars fallen from the sky. Wiping a tear that rolled down her cheek, she walked to the French window despite the darkness and she abruptly stopped by the phonograph, when she noticed the bathroom door was ajar; she could see the yellowish light the street lamp provided in the bathroom, through the small opening. She didn't remember if she had left it that way before going downstairs – and she always closed the doors, a habit she had taken back in Saint-Paul, when she was but a little girl following her mother everywhere.

Surprised and vaguely nervous, she went to the bathroom door and shut it a bit noisily, assuming a wind draft had opened the door during her absence. _I need to go to bed; five minutes on the balcony, then I'll take off that silly outfit and I'll be Sansa again instead of a little girl who fears wolves-_

As she reached the French window, someone pressed a large hand against her mouth, forced her to turn around and pinned her to the wall. Terrified, she uselessly tried to scream, but her assailant was way too strong and determined. She couldn't see anything in the darkness and only perceived the reek of alcohol and the metallic taste of blood on her gagged mouth. Sansa frantically flailed, convinced it was Trant, coming back for her.

"Easy, girl, it's just me," a raspy voice said.

She recognized the Hound, though he sounded different from the other day. _Drunk, he's drunk_, she thought, as her heart still pounded wildly. He towered above her, pressing his body against hers; after he removed his hand from her mouth, he felt the satin of her cloak around her shoulders.

"What is it you wear?" he asked. "Is it a fucking nightgown or something?"

"No- no, it's not," she stammered. "It's a costume."

_What is he doing here? Why in all places did he choose to come here? If Baelish sees him in my bedroom-_

He didn't let go of her and almost dragged Sansa to the bedside table. Understanding any kind of resistance was pointless, she remained silent. The lamp tumbled out as he tried to turn it on and when the orange hues projected by the glass lampshade lit the room, she saw a scary version of the man who had cradled her two days ago: disheveled and dirty, his rolled up sleeve half torn and his shirt spattered with blood, he had gashes on his forearms and on his hands. His waistcoat seemed to hide a deeper cut near the collarbone. His feverish gaze startled her and she cringed when he pointed at her crimson cloak, licking his lips and giving a saturnine laugh.

"Who are you, the fucking Red Riding Hood?"

Humiliated and appalled, she tried to keep calm and imperceptibly stepped back.

"That's it. We had a show tonight," she steadily explained.

"A show, Little Bird? Does it mean you wiggled your ass in front of them all?"

_He's drunk and he doesn't know what he's saying. _Even while repeating it to herself in a desperate attempt to keep a cool head, Sansa couldn't help feeling scared and his hot gaze on her set her pulse racing. She noticed he had thrown his coat on the carpet, next to the bed; slowly, she picked it up, slightly shook the damp fabric and without a word, she walked around the bed to put the coat on the console table, where he generally left it.

"Good girl," she heard him whisper.

Sansa hesitated and gingerly went back to him, averting her eyes.

"What happened to you?" she asked in an undertone.

He shrugged, with the sulky offhandedness of a brat; she could watch him out of the corner of her eyes. Her costume made him laugh again and he took a step forward, then played with the thin cord fastening her cloak. His long fingers were dirty, covered in blood and grime.

"Is it your blood?" she went on. "If you're wounded, you should see a doctor... I'm sure you can ask Doctor Pycelle to come to the Red Mansion anytime."

The Hound slowly shook his head and tutted.

"Only scratches," he answered.

"But your shirt-"

"Not my blood, girl. Not my blood."

Judging by his slurred speech and the sickening smell of whiskey that washed over Sansa every time he opened his mouth, he had drunk enough to knock down any other man.

"Whose blood is it, then?" she asked, hitting the high note.

He didn't reply and kept on playing with the cord around Sansa's neck. She bit her lip, fighting the persistent anxiety that made her shiver; looking up to him, she noticed a spark in his eyes she identified as blood-lust. _He beat someone. Maybe he killed that person. And now he's in my bedroom, drunk._

"Whose blood is it?" she insisted.

His eyes bored into hers with a violence she had not seen in him since she had left the Red Mansion. Letting go of the cord, he seized her shoulders, made her spin and almost threw her across the bed. A tiny cry escaped her lips as she landed on the mattress and before she managed to sit up, he straddled her.

"Anymore questions, young Miss?" he rasped, bending over so that his long hair brushed her face.

"You won't hurt me."

Sansa herself didn't know if it was a question, a statement or a plea; her voice sounded so nervous it could express anything and the Hound didn't reply. She shivered like a leaf and repressed the tears that inevitably pooled at the corner of her eyes, as he moved aside the red satin cloak to take a look at her dress. His hanging hair shadowed his face, concealing indifferently the burns and his good cheek, giving her the illusion that a huge faceless man leaned over her.

Her white dress was rather modest as she played the part of a little girl and the round neck seemed to disappoint him, for he shifted, moving back slightly on his knees, and he touched her apron. With unhurried movements, he pulled aside the apron and ran his fingertips on her skirt. She merely felt his hands on her thighs and the puzzled, almost serious expression on his face surprised Sansa. After a few seconds, the Hound seemed to remember where he was and who was lying down under his muscled legs; without any other warning, he snuffled noisily and got on his feet. Sansa dared not sit up because he still stared at her, his ragged breathing making his chest rise and fell.

"You're not forced to tell me, if you don't want to," she said shyly. "It's not my business, after all."

She expected an apology or a simple gesture, like helping her standing up, but he snorted with so much contempt she felt vexed before he opened his mouth.

"Should pin you to the bed more often; it makes you more docile."

Sansa hesitated, but he didn't react when she sat up, propped on her elbows; finally she got on her feet, still avoiding his gaze. She noticed one of his cuts had left a red trail on the skirt of her dress; the Hound had seen it too. She hastily tugged on her apron to hide it. The blood stains on his shirt and the gashes on his hands and forearms offered her a diversion.

"You can't go back to the Red Mansion like that, can you?" she whispered. "You should wash your face and hands, to begin with, and perhaps let me tend this wound."

She pointed at the bigger blood stain on his collarbone. He nodded wordlessly. _That's it. Sometimes, he just needs someone to tell him what to do and where to go._

"Please come."

He followed her to the bathroom; she made him wash his hands and forearms, turning on the faucet above his dirty hands, giving him some soap, then wiping his hands with a towel, as if he was a child. When she met his eyes again, the uncanny spark had disappeared and she only saw a weary man with dried blood on his forehead and cheeks.

"Your face," she told him.

He complied and splashed water on his face, splattering the tiles and Sansa's dress. Once more, she offered him a towel, then she bid him to sit down on the rim of the bathtub. She searched the closet until she found iodine and some compresses. The Hound observed her, seemingly fascinated by the girl with a red satin cloak who opened the small bottle containing iodine and poured some orange liquid on a compress. The absurd costume she still wore began to irritate her as the smooth fabric obstinately slid from her shoulder and she finally removed it, hanging it on the hook with her nightgown.

Sansa planted herself in front of him, took a sharp intake of breath and applied the compress on his cheekbone where she had seen a cut. He cringed at once.

"It's alright," she said in a reassuring tone, putting her left hand on his shoulder.

He still didn't like the contact of her fingers: his muscles tensed under the wet fabric of his shirt. At the same time, she wondered why his shirt wasn't dry. Was it the rain? Was it sweat? She couldn't decide. Sansa kept cleaning the cuts on the good side of his face until half of it was covered by faint orange stains. Then, she turned to his scars. Whoever had fought with the Hound had scratched him on that side too.

"Can you hold back your hair, please?" she asked him.

He brushed aside his dark locks and did as he was bid, a sparkle of curiosity in his gray eyes. _He wants to know if I'm afraid of his burns_, she mused. She wasn't. The scars were as ugly as she remembered, with cracks and even craters oozing pus; she patiently cleaned the fresh cuts and the old scars that reopened from time to time.

"Does it hurt?"

Sansa saw him clench his teeth, but he shook his head vehemently._ He's got the confidence of a child who lies to reassure the grown-ups._ She resumed her ministrations, applying a new compress on his face, throwing the used one in the bin.

"It's over," she finally announced. "Let's see that cut on your chest now. Remove your waistcoat and your shirt."

He obeyed her, curiosity lingering on his gaze as he dropped his black waistcoat then his shirt on the tiles. He looked up at her, straightening his back.

_No, Sansa, don't. _A little voice in her head lectured her when she understood she was staring at him, appraising his bare chest. She knew he had broad shoulders, but seeing them was entirely different. The rippling muscles, the scar tissue, the dark hair growing on his torso: she had expected all these details and even though she imagined he could look like that, she felt impressed, moved that he agreed to take off his shirt in front of her. What he stirred up inside her, she couldn't put it into words but she knew she was blushing.

He didn't feel comfortable either, for he missed the chance to laugh at her; secluded in their own thoughts, they resumed their activities, Sansa taking another compress soaked with iodine and him watching her carefully.

"God, who hurt you?" she asked, frowning at the sight of the deep cut on his collarbone.

"Who cares?" he shrugged. "I killed him."

She tried to stay emotionless, but his casual tone shocked her as much as his confession.

"It's better if you don't know," he added in an undertone.

He sounded concerned now, as if ignoring who he had killed protected her. As she leaned forward, his eyes roamed over her, going from her face to her breasts. She blushed again and something changed in him; she expected him to avert his gaze but he seemed to stare at her with even more boldness. _And what else? Is it lust?_ She felt the urge to regain her composure and she turned around abruptly, pretending she needed another compress. _It's the last one: I'm so unlucky._ She shook like a leaf as she opened again the bottle of iodine and soaked the fabric with the orange-colored liquid.

"No more questions, Little Bird," he rasped, threatening.

Sansa jumped and she would have stepped back if possible when she spun on her heels, but she was in a corner of the bathroom and the washstand prevented her to move aside: he was standing up, towering above her, and she suddenly realized what his victim had felt when facing him. _Complete and utter confusion, terror... he didn't leave any chance to this man. _The Hound's challenging gaze urged her to finish her task; she tried to calm down and lifted her hand to clean the cut on his chest.

"You look like a nurse," he commented, his long fingers tugging the hem of her apron.

_A strange nurse, then. Minutes ago I was staring at him as if I had lost my sense of propriety and now he frightens me so much I can't focus on his wound._

"Did you get wounded during your time in Europe?" she asked, trying to ignore his concupiscent look.

"That chirping, again," he sighed. "I wondered when the Little Bird would start talking and asking questions as if she gave a shit about what I went through as a soldier."

"I wouldn't ask if I didn't care," she retorted, frowning. "You're free not to answer, if you don't want to... It's over."

Sansa didn't know if she felt relieved or frustrated; questions tumbled out in her head. Now that his cuts were clean, she ignored what she was supposed to do and what he wanted.

"Anyway... You should see a doctor. I think you need some stitches."

He shook his head with a stubborn expression on his face but didn't move.

"Why did you come here?" she tried again, taking his big hand in hers and examining a cut on his forearm.

He shuddered under her touch but the usual casualness came back instantly.

"Had nowhere else to go."

"You can stay here until dawn, then sneak out," she suggested. "It's up to you."

"You should be more careful with me, girl. If you're that fucking Red Riding Hood, then I'm the wolf."

"You could be the hunter."

He snorted.

"In the end, the wolf swallows the little girl and there's no fucking moral. The hunter was invented because modern kids are wimps, that's all."

"The whole story is an invention," she protested.

As he stood in her way, she had only two choices: look at him straight in the eyes and blush or stare at his bare chest and blush again. She sighed deeply, averting her gaze.

"Maybe it's an invention, but it warns the foolish little girls they should always stay on the path," he growled.

He stepped back, still staring at her and she hastily put away the bottle of iodine in the closet; then, she walked to the bathroom door, opened it and turned off the light. Sansa gasped when she felt his hands on her upper arms: the Hound forced her to face him, pinned her against the wall and ran his cracked lips on her face. He slammed the door, so that the street lamp outside was the only source of light. His breath, thick with alcohol, washed over her as he pressed his body against her and claimed her lips.

Sansa was too terrified to move: she felt his mouth on hers, cruel and possessive. He nibbled at her lips, eliciting tiny gasps that seemed to encourage him even more and his tongue brushed her lips with a renewed eagerness, until she yielded and opened her mouth to him. As his big hands clasped her hips, he began to flick his tongue against hers. _'In the end the wolf swallows the little girl'_. That was precisely what she felt.

There was no tenderness in his kiss, only the sudden impulse of a man whose drunkenness unleashed a desire he had kept secret for a long time. Waiting had made him ravenous; he didn't let go of her and lifted her in his arms to have a better access to her mouth and to hold her tightly. He went on, exploring her mouth and stealing her breath. In the meantime, she put both her hands on his chest, gently at first, then firmly, to show she wanted him to stop.

He paused, his ragged breathing tickling her neck as he had dropped his head. His arms still circled her waist and held her. They stayed like that for a while, him catching his breath and her wondering if what had happened was for real.

In the end, he put her down, and Sansa had to hold herself to the door knob not to collapse on the floor. On wobbling knees, she left the bathroom, the Hound on her heels. He didn't talk, didn't apology nor tried to explain himself: he simply looked at her, chest heaving. For a second, she believed he was going to run away and she wished he decided to stay, convinced they could discuss about their kiss later, but his sullen expression didn't leave her much hope.

The dim light the bedside lamp provided left most of his upper body and face in the shadow; as he stood in front of her, she hesitated then gestured to the bathroom.

"Well, I need to change clothes and to ready myself. I won't be long."

She sounded so pathetic she almost laughed at herself; she heard the mattress squeak under his weight, then the Hound gave out a coarse laugh when she locked herself in the bathroom. All the anger and frustration she had felt after his first visit came back, as she took off her dress, repressing her tears. Except that now he had kissed her, and everything looked worse.

_He's rude and getting ruder when he's drunk. He takes advantage of the situation and I can't even send him away because he would have more troubles. And if he's in trouble, I can't escape..._ Sansa wiped her tears, washed her face and contemplated her reflection in the mirror. Nothing in her outward appearance had changed yet she knew everything could be different after that night. She checked her long braid, her night-gown and dressing gown, making sure she was decent, breathed deeply and unlocked the door. Before leaving the bathroom, she looked at the heap of clothes on the floor; his crumpled shirt and her white dress on top of it. On an impulse, she picked his shirt and waistcoat before opening the door.

The Hound was sitting on the bed, his bare feet looking extraordinary big on the bedspread, his scarred chest offered to her gaze. His sardonic smile infuriated her.

"This is a fine bed you have, Little Bird. Way too big for a lonely bird, but I like it."

_Does he forget what that bed means for me? This bed is a part of Baelish's plan for me, and he should remember it! _Unaware of the irritation his tactless remark aroused, he squared his shoulders and crossed his arms about his chest, observing her as she walked to him – he had chosen the side that was closer to the door.

"I brought back your clothes," she said coldly. "Why did you choose that side, by the way?"

He shrugged, looking around.

"I'm supposed to protect you. I'm a man, I sleep by the door."

_Protect me? You scared me to death, you stole a kiss from me... _Sansa carelessly dropped the heap of clothes on the rug and walked around the bed to reach her side. _Since he didn't even let me choose..._ She sat on the edge of the bed, feeling in every fiber of her body that he stared at her. She didn't remove her dressing gown and quickly slipped under the blankets, rolling on one side, so that she had her back to him.

"Are you angry, Little Bird? Maybe it's not so bad. Anger will give you courage. Anger is a fuel."

"Would you mind turning off the light?" she asked him, a hint of arrogance lingering on her voice.

Instead of obeying her, he shifted, rolled on one side too and she felt his hands close to her back. _For God's sake, what is he doing?_ A light tug at the back of her head gave her the clue: he was touching her braid, stroking her long hair.

"What are you doing?" she dared ask.

"Nothing wrong," he whispered.

He was untying the coral pink ribbon at the end of her braid – she saw him while glancing around her shoulder – then he ran his fingers through her auburn hair. At some point, she heard him sniff and she guessed he was smelling her locks. Sansa felt the situation so disturbing, she decided any conversation was better than this uncomfortable silence.

"One of the women working here offered me her help," she said.

He sighed deeply and she understood at once she had broken the spell.

"Never trust whores, Little Bird," he rasped.

"She's not a prostitute, she's the cook. Her name is Rose."

With that, she rolled on the other side and faced him; her hair seemed tangled in places, she certainly looked disheveled and the ribbon was gone. As the bedside lamp was behind his massive form, she couldn't see much of him.

"What did you say to that woman?" he asked.

"Nothing. I didn't tell her I wanted to go. I don't know yet if I can trust her. I suppose I could."

He remained silent for a while, rubbed his forehead and finally looked back at her.

"Send her to the Red Mansion. Tell her to find me," he suggested, yawning. "I'll ask her a few questions and I'll tell you if she's... you know..."

"Trustworthy?"

He nodded before extending his long arm to turn off the light.

* * *

_Warmth. _As Sansa's mind drifted between sleep and consciousness, that sensation prevailed over anything else: she was warm, safe and felt well. Her eyes fluttered in the darkness of the bedroom and she realized it was very early in the morning, long before dawn. Then she gasped when she found the Hound's arm around her waist and she realized that the pleasant and comforting warmth behind her back was his.

He must have felt something for he shifted and promptly removed his hand from the hollow of her waist. He nevertheless stayed behind her.

"Are you awake?" she asked. "Do you want to talk about last night? About that person you hurt?"

Silence stretched between them and she bit her lip, understanding her mistake.

"Don't feel like it," he whispered in her ear.

His flat refusal could have disheartened Sansa but the way he had uttered these words sent shivers down her spine. _I'm certainly losing my mind_, she told herself, thinking of what she wanted to ask him.

"Hold me tight, then."

He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close.

"It's alright, Little Bird," he said in an undertone. "It's alright."

_How can this man threaten me and be so kind only hours after?_ She leaned back against his chest, trying to avoid the painful spot on his collarbone. His hand rested under her breasts and she wondered if he felt her heart pounding wildly. A question burned her lips; Sansa fought against it but the notion that he was about to leave decided her to ask it anyway.

"Are you going to kiss me again?"

The Hound removed his hand abruptly as if Sansa's ribcage was burning hot.

"Again?" he spat incredulously. "What's that fucking tale, girl? I never kissed you!"

"Of course, you did. Last night, in the bathroom..."

She rolled on the other side, but only to see him sit up and bend over to pick his shirt.

"You must be mistaking me with someone else," he growled, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "Your Russian customer, for example. Or one of these men who turn around you."

"But I remember-"

When he spun on his heels to face her, despite the darkness, his tone conveyed so much anger she recoiled instantly.

"You think the likes of me stop at kisses? You think I would have kissed you and simply let you go because you're a lady?"

Holding one of the columns of the bed, he leaned forward.

"Do you remember the reek of alcohol on my tongue? Do you remember your swollen lips? No? That kiss never happened, girl, that's all."

As he squatted to put on his shoes, she crawled on the mattress and turned on the bedside lamp. His nervous gestures while lacing his shoes made his muscles ripple on his back and she helplessly observed him, ignoring how to calm things down. He stood up and walked to the console table to take his overcoat.

"Look, I'm sorry," she whispered.

"No, please don't be. Ask that damn Russian, ask Sweet Sister next time you want kisses," he sneered at her. "I don't kiss anyone."

The Hound crossed the room silently then disappeared in the bathroom. Speechless, she heard him open the French window and she began to cry.

* * *

How long did she stay curled under the blankets, sobbing, Sansa couldn't tell. She saw the last beams of the moon, then the pink light of dawn and finally the cold brightness of the end of November. Snow could fall any day now and remind her of the winters in Saint-Paul, but she didn't care. She didn't understand what she was going through, didn't get why she was so desperate that she had almost forgotten the shock and utter disgust she had felt the night before, during the show. The Hound's visit had disturbed her in such a way she hardly remembered why she had been so angry at Viola. Her offended reaction at the show seemed futile now: yes, she lived in a brothel and she didn't fit in that shady world. However, the Hound could hurt her in ways she ignored, simply by denying what had happened.

_But did it really happen? Did I dream that kiss? _She stopped crying, wondering who was a liar – or a fool. Sansa touched her lips, trying to recall the sensation of his mouth on hers, the burnt side, awfully smooth in appearance where it had healed and the thin, cracked lips. She couldn't remember.

_'Do you remember the reek of alcohol on my tongue?' _he had asked her, contemptuously. Intense reflection suddenly animated her face as a deep frown appear on her forehead. One couldn't forget such a detail, yet his bad breath had left no trace in her memory._ Did I fancy all this?_

She abruptly got up, wishing to find proofs that his visit was not a fiction created by her troubled mind. Walking to the bathroom as the morning cast a pale light through the curtains, she opened the door and saw the bin, half-filled with yellow-orange compresses, her white dress, discarded on the floor with her underwear. Sansa picked up the dress and watched it closely; as she remembered, there was a reddish stain on the skirt, where he had touched her. _At least that was for real._ Like the spatter on the tiles, when he had washed his face. Like the towels where his cuts had left bloody marks. Like the stupid costume she had sewn for the show.

Little Red Riding Hood's cloak was still hung behind the door, its crimson satin being the only touch of color in the white bathroom. As much as the red cloak standing out against the off-white door drew her attention, she didn't really care about what had happened while she wore the disguise of a fairy tale heroin. The event she wanted to remember had occurred after, just before she left the bathroom.

Her eyes wandered on the wall, next the door, where he had kissed her. _Supposedly kissed me?_ she wondered. She wished to find a trace, a proof, anything that evidenced he had stolen that kiss, but reality disappointed her in a cruel way. Exiting the bathroom, she went back to the four-poster bed and froze when she noticed a bloodstain on the bedside rug. _He stayed there, he waited for me after sneaking in my room._ She slowly raised her gaze to the bed and sighed; the crumpled sheets, the chaos of blankets on his side left little room for imagination. The Hound has spent the night there, rolling over and leaping out of the bed at dawn, like some oversized jack-in-the-box.

_Where's the ribbon? _she asked herself, scanning the mattress and the sheets. Sansa methodically searched the sheets, stripped the bed and looked under the pillows: the pink ribbon she used to tie her braid at night was nowhere to be found. _Could he have possibly taken it? _The Hound acted like a madman, sometimes, but it made no sense and she rejected that thought, like a pointless theory straight from her rambling mind.

Later, that morning, Rose came to clean Sansa's bedroom and the girl waited for her instead of leaving to help Peitho dress. A half-smile appeared on the old woman's face, as she imagined Sansa had made up her mind and wouldn't reject her offer, but she frowned at the sight of the room in disarray.

"You said I could trust you," Sansa told her. "Can you help me with these?"

She pointed at the stained towels and at her dress. Rose's eyes opened widely and she probably imagined terrible things before the girl could explain herself.

"Someone spent the night here," she offered, contemplating the cook's horrified expression. "It's not my blood."

Sansa suddenly realized she had just repeated the Hound's words when she had asked about the blood on his shirt.

"He was wounded. He's gone now."

"Who?" Rose asked, anxiety distorting her face.

"You said you just wanted to help," Sansa replied a bit stiffly. "Can you fix all this? Can you help me move the bed so that the bloodstain on the rug won't be visible?"

The cook nodded, still staring at the white heap with brown-red traces, the towels and the white dress formed at the bedside. As they moved the bed to conceal the blood on the carpet, Sansa pondered on that kiss she remembered despite the Hound's protestations. Maybe she was wrong, maybe it had never happened, but with time, she would know which one of them had lied. She had to accept that the proof wasn't somewhere in her bedroom, waiting to be found. The evidence that he had kissed her – or not – would be obvious and unquestionable the day his lips would met hers. _Again. Or for the first time._

* * *

**If you still believe 'Little Red Riding Hood' is only for children, you should probably have a look on Wikipedia and read the article about fairy tales...**

**To Juno24: I'm kind of a history nerd too, so seeking information about the time of Prohibition is just fun. Thank you for your feedback!**

**To mlt: Thank YOU for reading and reviewing. I'm happy you enjoy this story!**


	7. Crossing the Red Line

**Warning for foul language and... Littlefinger's creepiness.**

* * *

_Anger is a fuel._ When the Hound had said it, Sansa believed he was so drunk he babbled incoherently and she had not paid attention. However, as hours went by, she began to think that his advice was far from being pointless. She certainly needed to gather her courage, now that Baelish's house got back to the daily routine. Customers would ask for a dance in her bedroom and she would have to face Viola's enmity. Sansa dreaded all this – the customers' visits, the arguments with the other girls – even though she knew she couldn't escape it.

She couldn't avoid the conversation Baelish wanted to have with her. All the girls were summoned to the meeting hall to discuss about the show, but that morning, as Sansa was combing her long blond hair, Peitho had casually told her Baelish wanted to talk afterward, in his office. The madam didn't precisely say why he want to see the girl, but Sansa feared the worst. _What if he decides to sell me now? The Hound doesn't seem ready to go._ The events of the night before had convinced Sansa that her so-called savior had more than one iron in fire. _Perhaps he held a grudge against someone and killed that person yesterday; in any case, while fighting in the streets, he was not preparing our escape. _She remembered his disheveled look and the cuts on his face, chest and arms, then she shivered. _What if the cook told Baelish about what she found in my bedroom?_

Sansa sucked in a deep breath and glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She was paler than usual and her auburn hair seemed dull. _If girls beam when they're in love, then I'm not in love. _Sansa couldn't tell if the realization made her happy or sad; she sighed and left her room.

Girls showed up by small groups in the meeting hall and sat on the armchairs facing the stage. Sansa's impatience grew as her companions lacked punctuality; in the end, she crossed the space between the first row and the stage to join Peitho who waited for the owner of the house.

"So, did it work?" Sansa inquired. "Do you think there were enough customers last night?"

"You finally ask?" the madam commented, smiling. "You see, Petyr is in his office and he will join us any minute now. He'll give the girls gold stars and dunce caps. I wonder what he will say about you."

_Is she teasing me?_ Sansa smiled back and walked to her seat, vaguely nervous. If she had disappointed Baelish, it would be terrible. If he openly praised her talent, it would be worse; some girls would whisper she was Baelish's favorite and Viola would get back at her. She almost wished he would find her songs and dance routines only average. Without paying attention to the girls sitting next to her, she shook her head in disbelief. Her former self was a stickler, a girl who needed her parents' and her teachers' compliments as much as she needed air. Now she came to think that 'fair only' was better than 'excellent'. What kind of upheaval had produced such a big change in her?

The girls went silent; she cocked her head to the side and saw Baelish coming in, then gesturing at Viola who seemingly wanted to talk to him. He had the infuriated look of someone who says _'No, not now'_. Baelish. _Viola. The brothel. This is what happened to me_, she thought, fluttering her eyes shut in exasperation. She felt her fingers curl into balled fists and remembered the Hound's words about anger. _Hope he's right._

With his slicked-back hair, his pinstripe three-piece suit and his patent leather shoes, Baelish seemed to pose as a successful bootlegger. _But he's just Cersei's minion._ He grinned, sweeping the audience, and he cleared his throat.

"Good afternoon, ladies. Last night was a long night and I hope you enjoyed yourselves because..."

He paused, observing their reaction. Sansa's heart began to beat wildly in her chest. If the show was a failure and he decided he had lost enough money, she would have more customers in her bedroom and more chances to meet again Trant – or the likes of him. If Baelish was satisfied, there would be more shows and it meant more occasions to witness the shocking scenes she had seen the night before. _Like the girl kneeling in front of a man._

"Are you quite well?" Edna whispered to her ear, touching her wrist.

Sansa nodded evasively.

"Ladies, I really hope you enjoyed yourselves because we have another show next week!" Baelish announced.

Most of the girls began to shout in excitement and to laugh, some standing up and jumping up and down. Sansa stayed still, looking into the void, trying to decide if it was good news or not. When she finally raised her gaze, she found Baelish's eyes on her; he seemed puzzled. _I should be happy, I guess. But I'm not. I'll be happy the day I leave this place. With the Hound._

Her lack of enthusiasm seemingly disturbed Baelish; the man remained silent, staring at her, while the girls finally stopped laughing and sat down. Some of them noticed how he was looking at Sansa and she didn't need to glance around her shoulder to know that Viola glared at her. In the end, Peitho walked to her lover and lightly touched his arm with a motherly smile, as if she wanted to wake him up. Baelish immediately regained his composure and put his hands behind his back – a gesture meant to help him square his shoulders and to make him look taller.

"To make a long story short, ladies, we ran out of beer and whiskey, latecomers didn't find seats and... we made more money yesterday night than any other night since I bought that place!"

The girls erupted into cheers; a quick glance on the last row confirmed Sansa's guess about Viola. The dark-haired girl was not pleased at all, because she had been protesting against the show all along. The fact that she had been a part of it – playing the part of a lightly dressed, wanton Snow-White – didn't change anything to the resentment she felt.

"But..." Baelish added, "there are things I'm really proud of and things I don't want to see anymore. As you all know, I was among the customers. I saw everything. I'll be watching next time and I want improvements. Not efforts, improvements."

Next to Sansa, Edna sighed deeply, wondering if their boss would congratulate her or disapprove of her work. Most of the girls looked at each other and whispered until Baelish shushed them with a glare.

"Jo and Mary, the refreshment area. Good job, but people waited for their drinks during the intermission. We have to solve this problem."

"I'm sorry," Jo protested, "but we were only two girls and there were more customers than what we expected. As you said, we ran out of beer-"

"Enough," he cut her off. "We'll find someone else to help you during the intermission next time, but Mary has to move her pretty ass faster! Edna, you did quite a good job in the wings."

Sansa's neighbor nodded politely, smiling at the compliment. Baelish went on, naming girls and praising their attitude or reproaching them some minor shortcomings. Will he say something about Viola's behavior during my song, when she spoiled everything by laughing out loud? He hardly mentioned Viola, and Sansa wondered on his silence. _Baelish never misses anything. If I saw that she did it on purpose, he noticed it as well, so why does he shut his eyes to her bad manners?_

"I'm sure he'll say you were perfect," Edna encouraged her, nudging at Sansa.

"A bit shy, as usual," Meg approved, leaning forward so that Sansa could hear her, "but you sang very well."

She smiled at them gratefully; Baelish's review ended without him talking about Sansa. As the girls had all received personal compliments or reproaches, they stayed focused on his comments about them, and even Edna and Meg seemed to forget Baelish's confusing silence concerning the girl who sang three songs, danced and appeared in the last tableau. Baelish smoothed down his dark mustache and told the girls they may leave. Sansa repressed a sigh and pushed herself from her seat, watching with envy the cluster of women who excitedly discussed about next show.

"Sansa," Baelish called. "My office. Now."

He had uttered these words loudly enough and many girls turned to see her reaction. Some of them looked at Sansa scornfully: Viola's unconcealed pleasure brought color to her olive complexion, as she observed the girl retreating from the meeting hall.

Eyes downcast, Sansa followed Baelish, then thanked him when he opened the door of his office and moved aside so that she could come in first. Baelish's ostentatious office had not changed since her last visit; the furniture and the decor still clarioned their owner's social success. _Anger is a fuel._ If the rumor saying that Baelish's parents belonged to the low middle-class was true, their son had certainly striven to reach his goal and to find his place under the sun. _Am I angry enough to do whatever it takes to leave this house? Do I have enough guts to rebel against him?_

The jaded look she gave to the mahogany desk, the oriental rug or the green fainting couch didn't solve her problem: Baelish was about to tell her how furious he was, because she had behaved as if she still lived in Saint-Paul and sang in front of her family's friends. _I don't belong here, that's a fact. Did I make efforts to fit in with the crowd yesterday night? I would be a liar if I said I did. He knows it._

She wondered what he would do to her as she had disappointed him so much. Nobody had ever told her he was violent, but a man who ruled a brothel full of rebellious girls like Viola had to impose his rules and she was pretty sure he knew exactly what to do to make them obey.

He walked to his desk, his footsteps echoing in the large, pretentious room; Sansa knew he took his time, that he almost encircled her like an animal observing its prey before pouncing on it. She looked at him out of the corner of her eyes, repressing a shudder. In the end, after an agonizing wait for her, he sat down behind his desk and watched her. It was more than time to tell the girl she could have a seat, in Sansa's standards, but he seemed to refuse that simple gesture of politeness; she wondered if it was the revenge of a man born in a middle-class family against a girl who was her father's little princess, then rejected that idea. Baelish was mad at her, because she didn't obey when she was told to charm customers and it was enough to make him forget the elementary rules of courtesy.

He rooted his elbows in the polished surface of the desk, leaned forward and bored his eyes into hers.

"What do you want?"

His question was simple, yet it unsettled the girl. _A conversation with the Hound_, was the first answer she framed for herself, in the depths of her mind. _No. Go back home_, she suddenly thought. Baelish didn't expect these answers, though. Sansa speculated it could be a trick and remained silent, her blue eyes only conveying her interrogations.

"Come on, Sansa, I'm sure a girl of eighteen dreams of many... items. Clothes, jewels... Tell me now, what do you want?"

She shook her head shyly at first, then with more confidence as his eyes widened in surprise.

"Why would you like to give me some present?" she asked in disbelief.

"All this – the show, the rehearsals, the costumes... – was meant for you. Do you remember how Peitho begged me to let her organize the show?"

Unfortunately, she remembered quite well the way Peitho had taken advantage of his attraction to her.

"I was reluctant, I confess it now. I thought you were talented enough, but a bit too... artistic for my customers. Do you know what happened last night?"

She politely shook her head, still nervous about the outcome of their conversation.

"I was sitting next to an influential congressman. He told me he had come because he has... an interest in Lois and Lois begged him to watch her dance. Never mind... he came for Lois and he stayed for you. This man – and many others – told me how beautiful and gifted you were. They all want to see you again. You'll meet them, one by one, and you'll dance for them. You're fully booked for days, girl. That's what I want to thank you for."

Averting her eyes, Sansa swallowed hard and watched her fingers intertwined in front of her. _Booked for days? When will the Hound come back, if I have to dance for a different man every night? When will we prepare our flight, assuming he still wants to help me?_

"So, tell me," Baelish insisted, "what do you want?"

She remained silent, as he stood up and walked to her. When he planted himself in front of her, she avoided his gaze and a deep sigh escaping his lips betrayed his frustration. He cupped her chin, giving her the opportunity to examine his hand with slender fingers and filed nails –_ a woman's hand_, she mused.

Understanding she couldn't do otherwise, she held his gaze.

"So you're not mad at me?" she asked.

He shook his head, smiling at her confusion. Sansa found there was some smugness in this broad grin, something revealing he enjoyed these tiny proofs that he intimidated other people – like a man who remembers the bullied child he once was.

"Saying that I'm not mad at you is an understatement," he replied, straightening his back in front of a girl who was a bit taller than him.

"I want a one-way ticket to Saint-Paul. I want to go home."

Baelish almost flinched at her response; his eyes narrowed slightly and she realized that even if he was about to turn her request down flat, his determination could waver someday.

"No, Sansa, no. You're a sensible girl, you know it's impossible."

As her pleading eyes insisted, undermining his resolution, he rolled his eyes and felt the urge to explain himself.

"Do you know what Joffrey intended to do with you, once he decided your presence was not necessary anymore? Do you have the slightest idea of where you would have ended up? And how? I won't tell you because you would have nightmares for the rest of your life... and you would perhaps not believe me... I moved heaven and earth to convince him that you would be better here, because I would keep an eye on you and make sure you're not getting yourself into hot water. I saved your life. That's what I did."

During his tirade, his fingertips began to brush her jaw line, slowly going further and exploring her cheek; he probably felt her tense under his touch, for he stopped and removed his hand.

"Sit down, now," he said in an undertone, shoving his hand in his pocket and casually leaning against the edge of his desk. "If you try to escape and head to Minnesota, you'll never make it. You'll be dead before reaching Westchester County. That's why you can't leave this house: New York is a dangerous city for a girl like you and I can't protect you outside."

"You can't protect me inside," she snapped back. "What happened with Meryn Trant-"

"What happened with Meryn Trant was a regrettable incident. But you're safe now."

His nerve when he kept saying she was safe infuriated her so much she felt tears pooling at the corner of her eyes. The man standing in front of her pretended not to notice and shifted from foot to foot.

"Let's forget what happened with this numbskull and let's focus on serious matters, Sansa. What do you want?"

"I already told you."

"Supposing you reach Saint-Paul, they'll hunt you down and they'll kill you. Killing a girl in New York City or in Minnesota doesn't make a difference for them. This is the only place where you can be safe."

He tilted his head, once he noticed she was staring at the candlestick phone on his desk and lifted his palms in an interrogative gesture.

"A phone call to Robb, then," she said. "To make sure at least one of us is alright."

He chuckled nervously.

"Your brother is fine as long as he stays in his hole and doesn't move nor tries to reach you. You know they keep him under surveillance, don't you? A phone call from my office here in New York and I'm a dead man as well."

She glared at him. His gray-green gaze was the ugliest thing she had seen in a while. He didn't flinch despite the hatred and contempt her eyes expressed and he stiffened a little bit, clenching his jaw.

"After what I did for you, I expected more gratitude, dear. Never mind. I'm sure a visit to the best jewelers and dress designers will make you sober up. Put on a pretty dress and go fetch your coat."

With that, he gestured to the door and she slowly stood up, still staring at him.

"I'll meet you in the entrance hall," he added. "Be quick about it."

Sansa left the office, jutting out her chin and keeping her back straight. Images churned in her head: Robb, alone in Saint-Paul, ignoring where she was and even if she was alive; her future in the brothel if the Hound didn't help her escape. Her thoughts went back to Evie: she could end up like the red-haired girl, secluded under the roof, if she disobeyed. Understanding she was about to cry with rage, she stopped mid-stride in the staircase and tried to compose herself: tears and submission were what Baelish expected from her and even if she felt helpless, she still could deny him this pleasure.

She sighed deeply and went on; in her bedroom, she opened the closet and selected a blue afternoon dress with embroidery. Reaching behind her neck, Sansa undid her dress and let it pool at her feet before stepping forward; as she slipped on the blue dress, her eyes wandered inside the open closet until they found the black woolen fabric she was thinking of. For the first time in weeks, she took the coat Catelyn had chosen herself only days before her death. Sansa had it dyed for her parents' funeral. Since she couldn't leave the Red Mansion, and now Baelish's house, she hadn't wore it ever since. Burying her nose in the collar, she cringed at the acrid smell of dye, before putting it on, then she turned to the cheval mirror.

She looked bad and the knee-long black coat didn't make her thin figure less somber. Shrugging, she put on her hat, walked to the door and opened it, then almost stepped back when she saw Viola among a bunch of girls who stood on the landing, obviously curious about what had happened in Baelish's office.

"Are you packing?" the dark-haired girl asked, puffing herself up.

"I- I don't think so."

Viola laughed, then crossed her arms about her chest in a pointless gesture to bring out her big breasts.

"She doesn't know!" she exclaimed, give a look at her companions. "Can you believe that? So what happened, sweet heart, why did Baelish want to see you? Did he ask you to suck his dick? I bet you couldn't."

The girls began to laugh and as they were in Sansa's way to the flight of stairs, she couldn't simply walk away. At some point, Sansa felt so distraught she thought of going back to her room and throwing herself on the bed to cry, but on an impulse she met Viola's eyes.

"You'd like to know what happened in his office, right?" she asked the dark-haired girl. "I'm not going to tell you. If you will excuse me now, Mr. Baelish is waiting for me."

Ignoring the girls' confusion and their puzzled looks, she reached the staircase and hurried downstairs. Baelish was in the entrance hall, his coat on; he hold his fedora in both hands.

"Is there a problem with the girls?" he inquired. "I heard them...You shouldn't pay much attention to them, Sansa."

"I know. That's what I did."

Perhaps his advice could have cleared the air, if Sansa's anger against him and against the new life he had offered her like a magnanimous present was not as strong. He led her outside and she felt strange when she crossed the threshold, as the sunbeams caressed her cheek, making the cold wind of the end of November less stinging. Walking on the sidewalk in front of the house, even if it was rather filthy, meant the world to her and she couldn't help smiling. _I could walk through the city and, even with my high-heels shoes on, I would leave Baelish behind._

His voice dampened her spirits.

"We're not going for a walk, dear. We'll take the Packard and my chauffeur will drop us off."

She reluctantly turned around and saw the Twin Six limo with the chauffeur waiting outside, blowing on his cold hands. Sansa walked to the black car, greeted the chauffeur and got in with a sigh.

Inside, despite the comfortable seats and the rather large passenger compartment, she felt hemmed in by Baelish's presence. Putting as much space between herself and Baelish as possible, she leaned against the car door and turned to watch the city through the thick glass of the car window. The engine roared as the chauffeur started the car and they quickly left the street where Baelish's house was located to reach the nice parts of town.

Melancholy washed over her at the sight of the large streets surrounded by high buildings; in the early afternoon, people came and went on the sidewalks, some hurrying to their office, others walking around and chatting. Suddenly, she gaped when the chauffeur turned right in a broad street, and she recognized their destination.

_Fifth Avenue. The central scene of The Age of Innocence. Edith Wharton couldn't choose another place to introduce Newland Archer and Countess Ellen Olenska. _She had fancied that street more than any other one, when she still lived in Saint-Paul. Edith Wharton had published _The Age of Innocence_ and won the Pulitzer the last year Sansa had spent in her parents' manor of Winterfell: she remembered her excitement every time she grabbed the book she kept on her bedside table and opened it to read Newland Archer's trials and tribulations. At that time, Sansa thought New York City and Fifth Avenue were the most beautiful places on earth, making every tiny event brighter because it had happened there. _I refused to listen to the message though it was pretty clear: it was a warning about this town. No matter how enchanting this place is, it shatters hopes and illusions. I should have listened what the author was telling me, but instead of paying attention, I begged Father and we moved to New York._

The chauffeur, a tall man whose cap and gray overcoat were all she could see of him through the glass window between the passenger compartment and the driver's, pulled over suddenly and Baelish got out of the sedan to walk around and to open the car door for Sansa. On her right, she recognized the glitzy shop sign of a couturier.

"Come," Baelish told her, offering his arm.

She deliberately ignored his gesture, forcing him to let his arm fall on his side, but not before a few seconds of hesitation.

"I've got plenty of dresses in my closet," she stated.

"You certainly don't have dresses like these."

"I'm afraid you're wasting your money."

Her jaded remarks were not enough to question Baelish's plan and, once more, his obstinacy commanded respect. _Still, he's wasting his money on me._

Once in the shop, an army of saleswomen surrounded them, helping her remove her coat, inquiring about Mr. Baelish's health and hardly frowning when they noticed Sansa's lack of enthusiasm.

"How can I help you, Miss?" the shop manager, a jovial woman in her forties, asked, clasping her hands.

"I'm afraid you can't unless you sell train tickets," Sansa replied, casting a chill.

The saleswomen looked at each other, wondering if it was some kind of cold humor or if the girl who accompanied Mr. Baelish was mad.

"We'd like to see evening dresses," Baelish said a bit stiffly. "Something to enhance my young friend's beauty."

The shop manager instantly regained her composure and led them in one of the private rooms, dedicated to her wealthiest customers. Baelish and Sansa sat down in comfortable armchairs while the woman gave her orders.

"I don't want anything from you," Sansa whispered, enjoying his unease.

Several large mirrors placed around the room reflected his frustration – and her triumph. Refusing Baelish's present gave her an intense satisfaction, though she was not used to make scenes in elegant shops – nor anywhere else. Suddenly they had switched roles and even if she had had to follow his lead when he had taken her to this shop, she felt stronger than ever when he looked at her with pleading eyes.

"You know any girl in my house would kill to have one of these dresses in her closet? Where's the sweet girl who loved to go shopping?" he asked.

"I'm not any girl. And the person you're talking about died in my parents' car accident. Assuming it was an accident."

Baelish scooted to the edge of his seat and took her hand in his before she could withdraw it.

"Right now, I'm the only one standing between you and the Lannisters, so you'd better cooperate with me."

_You're not standing between me and the Lannisters. The Hound is._ Baelish's eyes glistened with a cold rage.

"Don't cross the red line, Sansa."

The shop manager came back, followed by one of the saleswomen; the girl, a bit shorter than Sansa, wore a green evening dress with fringes.

"This is one of our new dresses," she announced, addressing Sansa. "Would you like to try it on?"

The girl found her grin so fawning and despicable, it was almost easy to play the part of a spoiled young woman.

"Frankly, I don't have any opinion on this dress."

An awkward silence filled the room and when the poor saleswoman gave the shop manager a doe-eyed stare, Sansa wished she could take back her words.

"I suppose you have other dresses," Baelish said, sitting back in his armchair.

The woman mumbled something and two other girls came in. Sansa didn't really pay attention as the girls walked around, doing their best to bring out the fine fabric and the perfect finish of the clothes they wore.

"Sansa, please," Baelish commanded in an undertone.

"I already told you what I wanted and you refused to listen."

Her pout infuriated him. She locked eyes with the shop manager, who waited for her verdict, hands clasped in front of her, the woman's fixed grin revealing her growing nervousness.

"These dresses are beautiful and so is your shop," Sansa told her. "But... I don't need a dress."

She turned to her neighbor and gave him an insistent look; unless the woman was blind or stupid she would understand Sansa wasn't making a scene but settling the score against Baelish.

"Fine." Baelish said. "I'll choose for you, then. The red dress."

"Mr. Baelish is an expert in fashion!" the shop manager exclaimed. "A red-coral dress. Open-back, the finest silk you can find..."

All of a sudden, Sansa had a look at the young woman wearing the red dress and spinning around with a stupid smile on her face. _No. He doesn't want me to wear this... _It was see-through and the open-back made the dress unacceptable.

A quick glance at him made her swallow hard. If this afternoon on Fifth Avenue was a game, Baelish certainly intended to win it.

"Put it on," he ordered, narrowing his gaze.

His threatening tone convinced her she couldn't do otherwise; she therefore reluctantly stood up and followed the obsequious woman who showed her a dressing room before closing the door with a knowing smile.

_God, he knows exactly what he's doing._ Baelish might be the most cunning man she had ever met; he always considered profit and risk before deciding if something was good or bad. The dress: profitable, because it revealed her owner's back and because its vivid color flatter one's complexion. Herself: highly profitable, especially if she wore that dress.

Fighting back the angry tears welling up in her eyes, she removed her afternoon dress and slipped on the red one. _I won't yield. I'll be the most temperamental and unpleasant girl who ever lived in this town, but I won't yield_, she thought, opening the door and getting back in the private salon where Baelish waited for her.

Sansa rolled her eyes when she heard the cheap cliché the shop manager addressed her. She was amazing, she was exquisite, the dress had been made for her. She hardly glanced at her reflection in the mirrors adorning the walls, yet she saw Baelish's face on it and this vision sent shivers down her spine. He slowly pushed himself from the armchair and somehow the shop manager understood it was time for her to retreat. Baelish stopped right behind Sansa and she clearly felt his breath on her shoulder-blades.

"I know you would be beautiful," he said in an undertone. "In my entire life, I never met a more beautiful girl. Except perhaps your mother."

Sansa had once thought that story about her mother and Baelish being friends – and some said even more – was a tale told by envious people. Catelyn was a lady, whereas Baelish was an insignificant young man. And above all, only her father was worthy of Catelyn's love. The notion that the man standing behind her had harbored hopes about her mother was simply disgusting; his caressing tone sickened her. She abruptly turned around and looked down at him.

"I won't wear that dress, you know."

"Why are you telling me you won't wear it?"

"Because I don't want you to waste your money, nor your time. I don't want anything from you. I'm not a kept woman."

Her nerve disturbed him; she could see it in his gaze.

"I know you like that dress. Consider it's a fair remuneration after the efforts you made."

His eyes roamed over her until she felt again the acid taste of bile at the back of her throat. She folded her arms, trying to meet his expression the large mirror reflected.

"Maybe I'll accept your present if you answer my questions."

His gray-green eyes glistened with curiosity and he licked his lips.

"It depends on the questions you want to ask, dear. I'd say one present for each question. I feel like spoiling you, today."

"My parents' death: accident or murder?"

"Frankly, Sansa, you already know the answer. I'm a good sport, ask me something else."

"Who killed them? And who killed Robert? Why didn't you say anything about Viola's attempt to ruin my song yesterday night? What is your plan about Evie and her baby?"

He chuckled. Sansa felt giddy now that she had released a part of the interrogations she had bottled up for days and even weeks.

"That's a lot of questions," he commented. "Strange questions, by the way. Let me choose another dress for you and I'll answer to the first two questions inside the car. This is not the right place for confidences."

Ten minutes later, they left the shop. Baelish had selected a flimsy white dress in addition to the red-coral one she had tried on. As he was talking with the shop manager, she had heard two saleswomen wondering about the strange duo they formed.

"He's buying her these dresses to make up for something, it's obvious! I'm sure he cheated on her."

"No way. A man cheats on his wife with a girl like her, but he doesn't cheat on her."

"Why would she be so angry at him, then?"

_If only they knew the truth._

Once in the passenger's compartment of the limousine, Baelish answered her first question.

"Joffrey," he said steadily. "Joffrey decided your parents had to die. Cersei only wanted to get rid of Eddard, but your her son disagreed. Didn't seem to appreciate his future mother-in-law."

"Did you know?"

"That's another question, Sansa."

"As I suppose they also killed Robert, my second question is pointless now. And you bought me two dresses... so did you know?"

He sighed deeply, tilting his head back and thus betraying his unease.

"Had I knew, I would have saved your mother. I would have found something to convince her not to go with Eddard that day. As you know, I was a friend of hers."

Tears rolled down her cheeks. She did nothing to hide it and shook her head when he offered her his handkerchief.

"But you wouldn't have done anything for my father, right? You didn't care if he got killed!" she exclaimed.

"Unlike many people who surrounded you in the Red Mansion, I don't embellish the truth. No, I wouldn't have done anything for your father. I warned him once, but he didn't listen to my advice."

"I hate you."

"As you wish. You asked me two more questions, so I can drag you to the jeweler's shop, then to the restaurant."

With that, he opened the glass window separating them from the driver's compartment and gave the chauffeur an address. The jeweler's shop was just nearby – the ride didn't allow Sansa to stomach the news nor to collect herself. She was still dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief when the chauffeur pulled over.

"We can stay inside the car until you feel better," he suggested, reaching out to brush her cheek.

She recoiled at once.

"I'm fine," she said, her blue eyes conveying the hatred she felt for the man who had done nothing to save her father and who now humiliated her with his costly presents. "Let's get it over with."

Without waiting for him, she opened the car door and got out shaking. _Regain your composure. Think of your father. You're not as strong as he was, but you can do your best to ruin Baelish's afternoon._

The sun was already setting as she stared blankly at the store front. Baelish joined her and offered her his arm again; she glared at him and he didn't insist. Still, his sudden lack of doggedness puzzled her and she feared his reaction once in the shop.

As Baelish came in, the salesmen hurried to him with fake smiles plastered to their faces; Sansa stayed in the background, and the men were so eager to welcome their wealthy customer, they didn't pay attention to the girl who had turned around to give a thoughtful look at the darkening street.

"Did your friend enjoy the necklace and the ring?" the oldest salesman asked Baelish. "I suppose she did, or else you wouldn't be back!"

He laughed at his own joke, his co-workers' giggling echoing his until the man realized his mistake. He thought the tall woman with her back to him was Peitho and his widened when Sansa spun on her heels. His confusion took her out of her drowsiness. She slowly walked to Baelish as the salesmen scattered in the shop to find the jewels they wanted to show them. The thick rug muffled their footsteps.

"You come here often?" she inquired.

Her jaded look made her question irksome and she saw him repressing a nervous smile.

"It depends on what you call 'often'."

"Oh really? I bet she likes your gifts."

She didn't need to utter his mistress' name to evoke Peitho's intriguing presence. Baelish didn't flinch.

"She's grateful, unlike you," he whispered.

"So why are you wasting your time and your money with me? I told you I'm not a kept woman."

"You'll be what I want you to be, Sansa. You already took the dresses I bought you."

"Because I wanted answers," she protested. "Not because I wanted the dresses."

"It doesn't make any difference, now. Give me your coat."

As Baelish helped her remove her coat, she felt his hot gaze on her and her nervousness increased. It was different from Meryn Trant's lustful look, yet it was disturbing. He wouldn't hurt her that day, but his intentions were possibly just as bad. She stepped aside and sighed deeply.

The same little game they had played earlier started again: her feigned boredom infuriated him and cast a chill in the luxurious shop. He insisted on buying her a sapphire necklace and earrings. _Like these sets of jewels Peitho stores in her dressing table. _The idea that Peitho was not the only woman whom he offered jewels disconcerted her but she buried the thought away.

"That's one more question," she commented with a hint of mischief as Baelish held out the earrings.

The salesman frowned, ignoring what she was talking about. Baelish contemplated her, cocking his head to the side, to admire the sapphire's brilliance standing out against her creamy skin.

"I thought you were not a kept woman," he commented, eying her greedily. "Your stubbornness is both unnerving and beguiling."

"I'll give you some time, if you want," the salesman offered.

"That won't be necessary," Baelish answered, still looking at her. "We'll take the necklace and the earrings."

He stood up abruptly, as if the afternoon purchases now annoyed him. Sansa averted her eyes, always feigning indifference but she felt his stare, expressing his eagerness to be alone with her as soon as possible. Sensing his impatience, the salesmen hurried themselves and Baelish let out a deep sigh when he closed the car door behind him. Sitting back across Sansa, he observed the girl until she decided to break the awkward silence.

"That's three questions, including the restaurant," she announced. "What do you intend to do about Evie and her child?"

"Why are you so friendly with her?"

"Because she is a kind person. You promised me an answer," she reminded him.

He smoothed down his mustache in a casual gesture and leaned forward.

"It's a good deed."

She rolled her eyes.

"All right, it's not because I want to make amends. I don't make amends. You see, a pregnant whore is useless, until you find some desperate couple who wants a baby."

_He's not serious! _Her senses dull, she tried to realize what he had just said. Evie, already fearing for her baby's future, ignoring he or she would be taken away from her...

"Why?" she managed to ask.

"The girl found out she was pregnant a bit late and suddenly, I understood it would be profitable to let her stay in the house until childbirth, instead of sending her away."

Sansa wanted to tell him what kind of monster he was; she didn't find the right words though. The cold, scheming man who was sitting across her in the confined space of the limousine only deserved her contempt. He saw her reaction and kept on staring at her.

"You asked why I wanted to give her baby to a loving family, so you have only one more question, including the restaurant," he said, as the car slowed down.

"I'm not interested in your game anymore," she replied.

The restaurant was an elegant place where Baelish was a regular customer. She didn't ask if he often came here with Peitho, and sat down silently across him. Sansa was polite with the waiters, even if she didn't have a look at the menu and didn't answer Baelish's questions.

"Are you going to sulk in a corner for the rest of the day?" he asked her.

"I don't sulk. I talk to the waiters. I only don't want to talk to you."

Instead of shouting or threatening, he looked at her with more insistence. Her determination seemingly fascinated him and Sansa wondered if her decision not to yield was right. _It's as if the situation irritates him and pleases him at the same time. Does he like people who resist him? Does he like women who resist him?_ She did not feel strong enough to answer to that question right away and focused on her surroundings. Unbeknownst to her, she probably seduced him and that stupid game could have tremendous consequences for her, for her relationship with Peitho or with the other paneling and the dark-red wallpaper with its palmette motif were less disturbing than her companion's gaze. When one of the waiters noticed she didn't touch her food, he came closer and tilted his head, a concerned look on his face.

"Do you want me to bring something else, Miss? Our chef's lamb chops are very tasty..."

"Thank you," she replied with her best smile. "The food is perfect, but something took away my appetite."

The waiter frowned, worrying about her attitude, until Baelish cleared his throat.

"Leave us alone," he briskly told the young man.

Sansa glared at him as he wiped his mouth with a napkin before emptying his glass of water. His dark mustache didn't hide the smug smile on his face. She knew the other customers looked at them, wondering who they were and why the pretty red-haired girl pouted, but she didn't care.

"Ah, Baelish! It's about time."

A baritone voice made her jump and when she raised her gaze, she saw the thick waisted figure of Kevan Lannister. He was wearing a dark three-piece suit and his skin, usually pale had turned red by places with the cold wind. Behind him, Sansa spotted the Hound, whose mere presence had silenced the customers. _He dwarfs anyone_, she thought, her eyes going from him to Baelish whose light build suddenly seemed ridiculous. The Hound, silent as ever when he escorted a member of the Lannister family, took in her sullen expression and the untouched food in her plate. _I didn't come here of my own free will, he has to understand it._

"Hope I'm not interrupting," Kevan Lannister said, grabbing a chair from another table and sitting next to Baelish, while the Hound stood behind him. "I've been looking for you for hours."

If the Hound's presence reminded her how short Baelish was, Kevan Lannister's intrusion changed the dark-haired man's behavior as well: he became again the Lannister's minion, the man who worked for them and ate their scraps.

"What happened?" Baelish asked, feigning both innocence and anxiousness.

Kevan Lannister pointed at Sansa.

"Can I talk in front of her?"

"Of course, you can. She's with me, she's not going anywhere."

The Hound's eyes narrowed slightly and Sansa swallowed hard.

"It's Meryn Trant," Joffrey's great-uncle explained. "He's missing."

Sansa's heart skipped a beat. _Missing? What does it mean?_

"Nobody saw him since yesterday night and Joffrey's speach is scheduled for tomorrow. I was hoping you got some news from Trant..."

Baelish's astonished look expressed his ignorance better than any answer. Sansa felt Baelish's eyes on her and looked down at her plate. _No. It's nonsense. Things like that only happen in bad novels._

"Is something amiss, with the Stark girl?" Kevan Lannister asked.

"She's upset, that's all," Baelish replied. "She knew Meryn Trant since her stay in the Red Mansion..."

The Hound cracked his knuckles; the two men sitting across her didn't notice it – Kevan Lannister hardly frowned at the annoying sound – but when she locked eyes with the scarred man, she knew. _No, try to think straight. He wouldn't have done this. And even if he had killed Trant, there is another reason, a better reason than you..._

"But who?" Baelish asked.

"I'd say the Irishmen," Kevan Lannister confessed in an undertone. "Not that we had problems with them so far... I mean... their whiskey is good, but they're becoming greedy. They'd like us to pay for their damn war against the British Army. I think it's a kind of warning, Petyr... That's why I needed to inform you. Anyone who did this crossed the red line and we'll make them pay for their presumption!"

She had not eaten nor drank anything in hours, she felt dizzy. Her head spun and she put both her hands on the table not to fall.

"I think I need some fresh air," she says suddenly, pushing herself from her seat.

Baelish stood up but the Hound was quicker.

"I'll take her outside," he rasped, ignoring the shorter man's helpless gesture and holding her upper arms. Once again, the customers turned to them as they exited the restaurant. The cold air of November made her shiver and he led her to the black limousine parked nearby. She wanted to ask him if he really had murdered Trant and why, but the words were stuck in her throat. As soon as Baelish's chauffeur recognized the Hound he cautiously got back into the driver's compartment.

"No!" the Hound shouted. "Go fetch her coat, she's freezing!"

Too afraid to protest, the chauffeur hurried to the restaurant, leaving them alone. He opened the door for her, then got in. His massive figure filled the passenger's compartment, making her feel small and frail. Her stare irritated him, now that she knew.

"What?" he growled, avoiding her gaze.

"When- When will you come back?"

His expression softened but he glanced around his shoulder to make sure that Baelish and Kevan Lannister were out of reach.

"As soon as I can."

Hugging herself, she watched the chauffeur running to the car, holding her black coat; Baelish and Kevan Lannister were on his heels. The Hound wordlessly opened the car door and got out. Sansa felt like she was floating through a dream: the chauffeur's concerned expression as he gave her the coat, Baelish talking to Kevan Lannister on the sidewalk, next to the car... In the end, Joffrey's great-uncle walked away with the Hound and Baelish sat next to her.

"You seem terrified, dear. Did the Hound threaten you?"

She shook her head as the chauffeur started up the car.

"No need to lie, Sansa. The man is poor company. Still... I can't believe Meryn Trant is missing."

_Pig dead, Trant missing..._ Among five million New Yorkers, there was only one girl able to make the connection between these two events.


	8. In the red

_It doesn't make any sense_, she told herself once more.

Tossing and turning in her huge bed, Sansa reenacted the events of that afternoon, days before, when Baelish had taken her to Fifth Avenue. Night after night, she dwelt upon Baelish's revelations and especially on what Kevan Lannister had explained. _Meryn Trant vanished into thin air and he is most likely dead._

No matter how tired she was after the rehearsal – Baelish had demanded her to prepare a rendition of _'The Sheik of Araby'_, with her singing while five girls would perform a modern version of the dance of the seven veils – or after the visit of a customer who had asked her to dance the Foxtrot for one hour; she simply couldn't fall asleep. When her body surrendered, overcome with fatigue and only eager to find a well-deserved rest, her mind stubbornly resisted and refused to yield. That anomaly, Sansa couldn't explain it without evoking what the Hound might have done and why he had taken those risks.

Every night, despite the tantalizing prospect of slipping between fresh sheets and forgetting about the brothel and its inhabitants, anxiousness, confusion and fear kept her awake. At some point, during the days that followed her fortuitous meeting with Kevan Lannister, she realized that mystery was the first thing that crossed her mind in the morning and her last subject she tried to explore before finally falling into deep sleep. For lack of explanations from the Hound, she began and ended her days thinking of him.

Sighing deeply and kneading her pillow with exasperation, she sat up in her bed and crossed her arms about her chest in a childish and pointless gesture. _Let's take a close look at the most recent facts. Again._ She had been through this before: the frustrating realization that she couldn't sleep, wouldn't sleep before examining once more the meager elements she had: the annoying surrender to her fears and worries were all too familiar. As the cold air made her shiver, she pulled the blankets to her chin and tilted her head back, contemplating the darkness.

_Meryn Trant disappeared the same night the Hound sneaked in my bedroom, drunk and wounded. _That was quite simple and somehow she wished it was a coincidence. The time-line was much more intriguing. After Trant's attempt to rape her, the Hound had been her first customer. _The first to know._ His reaction – or rather his different reactions – to the news had surprised her; anger, then concern and something akin to tenderness in the end. No matter how difficult he had been that night and how his behavior sometimes infuriated her: he had stayed for her, running the risk of being discovered. His cutting remarks, when talking about Peitho's reaction should she find him in Sansa's bedroom, or his taunting were only provocations.

_His wounds showed he had fought, probably with someone who countered his blows and defended himself with a knife. _She remembered Trant carried a knife and often played with it in the Red Mansion, whenever he got bored. Even if the man who had assaulted her was used to tussle, a blade was his only chance against someone who dwarfed any other henchman working for the Lannisters – except the Hound's older brother, who was busy fighting against a group of small-town bootleggers who tried to monopolize moonshine in Tennessee.

_He came to me, saying he had no other place to go. _At night, in her silent bedroom, Sansa admitted it was disturbing, even if she refused to acknowledge it by daylight. Darkness reminded her of her panic when he had pinned her to the wall, then thrown her across the bed. With the lights out, she relived his visit and felt her chest constrict again at the thought of his hands on her. She suddenly closed her eyes, wishing to forget about her confusion. _He had no other place to go, he was wounded and I took care of him. Or I tried to. God knows it's difficult to take care of someone like him. You never know what he's going to do. _He had not protested when she had cleaned his cuts and that, combined with the rest, convinced her there was a link between her aggression, Trant's disappearing act and the gashes on the Hound's body.

When Sansa reached that conclusion, it was easy for her to get herself be dragged and to think about the Hound's motives, assuming he had killed Trant. She pinched the bridge of her nose. _Evie said he cares for me._ Sansa didn't dare think he loved her, even when she indulged in dreaming. Still, it explained everything, from the Hound's refusal whenever she offered to dance for him – he didn't want her to mistake him for a customer – to Trant's murder.

Everything – the way he looked at her, his goings-on to see and touch her back, his fits of anger, his gifts, his poor attempt to resist when she asked him to stay by her side – seemed connected to his feelings for her. Trant's death was no exception.

_'I've got things to sort out'_, he had mumbled before leaving her after the first night he had spent in her bedroom. She had genuinely thought of their escape, then, when he had showed up wounded, she had convinced herself that he had forgotten about his promise to help her and that he was more interested in fighting in back alleys. _I was so selfish, so stupid. A foolish Little Bird, he would say._

What was he doing then, if she admitted he had murdered Trant before hiding in her bedroom? _Shall I say he was avenging me? _Rolling on one side and lying curled up in a ball, she sighed deeply. If the Hound had decided to kill Trant in order to protect her and to make him pay for the aggression, it almost changed everything in their relationship. Sansa was indebted to him and she didn't know how she could thank him. Nobody had ever done such a thing for her.

When she was a little girl, she had once written a complimentary speech for her parents. She remembered it was their fifteenth wedding anniversary or so; they had gathered their relatives in the understated decor of Winterfell and her father had taken the best bottles of wine he possessed – it was years before the Volstead Act. After the dessert, before the ladies retired to the drawing-room, she had planted herself in front of her parents, cleared her throat and recited a few lines. Sansa had forgotten by now most of the speech, still she recalled the last part. _'You are the most important persons in my life and that will never change: you gave life to us. Robb and I could never thank you enough for that.'_

As tears rolled on her cheeks, she wondered if her memory failed or not, if the words she recalled were the same she had uttered, that night, making her father proud and bringing wetness in her mother's eyes. She was their happy little girl with a pink ribbon in her hair at that time, shifting from foot to foot and smiling to the guests. Somehow she missed that little girl who believed her parents would always be there for her and already pictured herself taking care of them once Eddard and Catelyn Stark would be too old to stay in their own house.

The pillow soaked up her tears which only left a sensation of tautness on her skin. She had once thought nobody could do what her parents had done for her, bringing her to this world, raising her, protecting her. Now they were dead, she couldn't thank them anymore – in her nightmares, she often felt guilty for not saying how much she loved them and she woke up crying. There was a man in her life now, ugly, rude, who had every failing, but who had most likely killed her tormentor, thus doing more for her than any other living soul. The complimentary speech she had written under Mrs. Mordane's watchful gaze was a derisory attempt to express her love for her parents. It was tender and Catelyn had loved her daughter's affectionate gesture; still, a speech wouldn't be enough to repay the risks the Hound had taken. _With Trant. And with Pig, before that._

That notion – two men murdered because they had hurt her – kept surprising and baffling her. She didn't ask anything, didn't even say in front of him she wished their death. The first time the Hound had come to see her, he had insisted until she told him why there were bruises and cuts on her back and what had happened. She remembered he had almost shouted at her and threatened her to make her talk. She had loathed his insistence, that night, finding him intrusive and tactless. _But he decided Pig would die even before knowing his name. As soon as he understood I had been hurt, he made up his mind and determined to hunt my tormentor and to kill him._

His fit of anger when she had confessed Trant's attempt to rape her took on its full meaning: it was a foretaste of what he would do to his colleague, because Sansa convinced herself Trant's death had been brutal. A man like the Hound, who had witnessed trench warfare and who knew the exact meaning of 'blood lust', had undoubtedly indulged in violence to punish her assailant. Sansa wouldn't be shocked if Trant's body was someday found with injuries that proved the savagery of the Hound's attack.

All of a sudden, she sucked in a deep breath, imagining the consequences for him should Trant's corpse be discovered. Assuming Kevan Lannister's opinion would be shared by the police, the detectives could suspect a settlement of scores between bootleggers. If they were lucky enough, the police would even ignore the case on the grounds that investigating on a henchman's murder was a waste of time.

As her eyes were now adjusted to darkness, she looked at the spot where he had slept that special night. There was nothing to be seen, as Rose stripped the bed every morning, but she knew his massive body had made the mattress sink under his weight and she knew he had rested his head on that pillow – before tossing it to the floor. Unlike most people, snug beds and soft pillows annoyed him: a habit he had taken during the Great War, or perhaps even before. Sansa didn't notice it at first, but after his last visit, she had slept on _her_ side of the bed, opposite to the door. When she had realized the new habit she had taken, she had blushed deeply – though Meg wasn't there to tell her – and called herself a silly goose. What did it mean, if she suddenly changed her way of doing things because he had told her so? What did it mean if she behaved in his absence as if he was there?

Ashamed, she bit her lip. She had called herself stupid and sappy since that day but it didn't change anything; she slept on _her_ side of the bed, instead of sprawling in the middle of the mattress. Still contemplating the spot where he had spent the night, she felt a lump in her throat when imagining the consequences of an inquiry about Trant's death. _It will be my fault if the police catches him and sends him to jail, because he did it for me... and I can't do anything to avoid his arrest. If only he came here and talked to me._

It was late, probably long after midnight – she could tell by the silence that had fallen on the house – and she admitted with a resigned frustration that she usually fell asleep once she had considered all these elements. Something puzzled her that night, though she couldn't quite put a name on it. Of course, the kiss – or that stupid dream of a kiss she had made, depending on the version she chose – had beclouded their relationship and kept confusing her, but it wasn't the reason why sleep shunned her that night.

_What if I'm completely wrong about what he wants from me? What if I misunderstood every sign he gave me so far? Evie said he cares for me but she could be wrong as well. He wants me but does he love me? He has a man's needs and I live in a brothel; what if he did all this not because he decided to protect me but because he just wants me for himself?_

All of a sudden, the questions that had sprung in her mind made her reconsider her next conversation with the Hound. _Can it be a conversation? Now that he did what he thought useful to get his reward, what will happen next time he comes? Will he decide to wait until we manage to escape or will he take it as soon as he can?_ She shivered, appalled by the idea that her savior can also be another tormentor. The Hound was not a patient man. _'You think the likes of me stop at kisses?'_ he had spat before leaving her. She let out a deep sigh, wishing all her unease, nervousness and anguish could go with the air exiting her lungs.

What he could demand from her scared Sansa and she wished there was someone – anyone – that could help or advise her. She could always go to Evie and ask her what to do in such a case. Closing her eyes, she pictured herself talking to Evie and shook her head. Then, another image haunted her; it was not an invention of her restless mind, but a memory. She clearly saw the Hound's chest as he was standing in front of her in the bathroom, the night Trant disappeared. Sansa was cleaning some cut when she had asked who had hurt him. It was innocent, perhaps more a way to express her concern for him than a proper question, but it had incensed the Hound. As he stayed there, almost cornering her, his bare chest was all she could see and it was more than enough to make her blush.

His height and the uncommon width of his shoulders were impressive, especially when he stood up. He was muscled, but not like the boxers she had once seen; he didn't train to make his muscles thick and beautiful to watch. Years of tussle, a rather tormented youth and long months spent abroad, fighting for a country and a population he didn't know had simply made his chest muscled and scarred, the marks on his torso strangely echoing to the burns on his face. He still had the outward appearance of a soldier, almost five years after his demobilization and she doubted it would change someday.

The scars, combined to the hair growing on his chest or drawing a line down his navel, confirmed how manly he was. The sight had made her blush and she was sure that even now, the mere evocation of his upper body colored her cheeks with a deep red. And there was his smell, a mix of tobacco, whiskey and sweat, the latter overpowering the other two the night she found him in her bedroom. She would have called it reek, weeks ago, before he came to visit her. Now it was just the Hound's smell, strong and even heady. Sansa had felt terribly small and fragile compared to him and perhaps it was the key to understand their relationship: he exuded masculinity and was the exact contrary of the shy, dainty girl people usually saw in her.

_Will I protest if he asks me for a reward?_ To her great astonishment, she couldn't say yes. She was already drawn to him, though she didn't understand how a man she considered ugly could have that effect on her. The Hound produced a range of emotions inside her, from annoyance to attraction, and all the various shades in between.

Guilt and shame didn't belong to the crowd of feelings she felt whenever she thought of him, so far; she nonetheless had to get accustomed to them. Guilt had taken hold of her as soon as she had realized what the Hound had done to Pig and to Meryn Trant. Somehow, they were dead because of her. If she had resisted when the Hound had asked who had hurt her, they'd still be alive. Her voice, when uttering their names, had carried a death sentence and her ignorance about the Hound's intentions at the time didn't exonerate her.

Furthermore, she had become the Hound's accomplice now that she hid his crimes. _Should I go to the police and explain what happened? Should I tell them what I know?_ She shook her head vehemently; the Hound couldn't go to jail, not only because she needed his help to escape. Knowing that she was responsible for his arrest would be even worse than not saying a word. _The police knows everything about this place and they probably know I'm here, yet they didn't do anything against the Lannisters and their friends, like Baelish. Why should I help them? Pig and Trant suffered horrible deaths but in all likelihood, I was not the first girl they hurt. Trant could come and go after what he did, free as a bird; nobody would have brought him to justice._

Shame wormed itself in her mind as the Hound's new visit was coming. At first, she thought they would talk about the murders and perhaps about their flight, she had even harbored the hope he would apologize for his bad manners; these ideas seemed useless now. Sansa longed to see him and in the shelter the darkness provided her, she admitted she wanted him to hold her in his arms. His uncouthness was a part of him, as well as his familiarity; as scandalized as she had been the first time he had dared touch her, she had come to enjoy the sweet nervousness of feeling his eyes – or his hands – on her. It was improper; still, imagining herself in his arms was the only thought that made her feel good these days.

_All this is nonsense. I should sleep instead of torturing myself. _She rolled on to the other side, as if she turned her back on the Hound's ghostly presence and she buried her face in the pillow.

* * *

The room was plunged into darkness when she opened her eyes and she didn't know if she had slept for a long time or not. _It's early: I should go back to sleep. _The snugness of the bed was too tempting; she closed her eyes again, enjoying the warmth that surrounded her, until a door creaked, making her jump. Sansa cringed under the blankets and tried to adjust her eyes to the darkness. All she could see, as her heart beat wildly in her chest, was a large shadow leaving the corner opposite to her and walking silently. _Who are you? What do you want from me?_ The questions sounded perfectly clear in her mind, yet she couldn't utter a single word. As the intruder came closer, she felt limp, unable to run away like anyone else would do in such circumstances, for she knew it was him.

"What-" she finally managed to say, shivering.

His familiar face, with burns on one side and a persistent sneer, emerged from the shadow. Looming over her, the Hound rested one knee on the mattress that immediately moved under Sansa's form.

"What do you want?"

"I want my reward, Little Bird," he rasped.

She screamed, grabbing a wrist that wasn't the Hound's.

"Sansa, wake up!"

Trembling and trying to catch her breath, she saw Peitho's oval face and the morning sun made her realize it was later than she thought. She sat up, noticing the madam's knee resting on the edge of the bed. _That's why I felt the mattress sink; it was just a dream, a bad dream._

Peitho still wore one of her kimonos, and in the pale light of the morning, her blond hair formed a halo around her head.

"You scared me to death," Sansa explained.

"A nightmare, obviously. Are you familiar with them?"

The girl shook her head.

"Peitho, did I say something in my sleep?" she asked, words laced with nervousness.

"You just screamed... Why, darling, is there something you don't want me to know?"

Peitho casually brushed her cheek, but that tender gesture didn't alleviate Sansa's unease; puzzled by her lack of reaction, the blond woman took a step back and her tone slightly changed.

"Well, you didn't show up, so I came to see if you were alright. We have the rehearsal... and you have a customer tonight. It's an important man, so you'd better get ready."

As soon as Peitho left her, Sansa took her head in her hands and sighed deeply. The daily routine of the brothel was annoying, yet it was nothing compared to the obsession that slowly took hold of her.

* * *

Her restlessness was visible that day and perhaps it infected the other girls; Peitho watched them carefully, sometimes shaking her head in disapproval. As the show took place the day after, Marillion had come for the rehearsal and accompanied the girls with his piano. Unaware of the noise they made, two workers installed the new counter and behind the upright piano, the self-important musician rolled his eyes with each blow of their hammers. Baelish came in the meeting hall, swept the room until he found Sansa sitting with the other girls and pointed at her.

"You. You promised me a rendition of _'The Sheik of Araby'_. I want to see it."

"I didn't promise anything," she replied a bit stiffly. "And the girls' dance is before my song."

Sitting in an armchair located in the front-row, Baelish crossed his arms about his chest.

"I want to hear that song. Now."

Glaring at him, she climbed the few stairs leading to the stage, while her dancers protested, saying they were not ready. They were five, dancing while Sansa sang. The dance routine consisted in swaying movements and Sansa herself had showed them what she wanted. She nodded to Marillion who began to play; the so-called oriental tune sounded weird when he played the piano, but the musician had promised it would be just fine with the rest of his band.

_"He's the Sheik of Araby,_

_As you can plainly see_

_At night when I'm asleep_

_Into my tent he'll creep"_

She had changed the lyrics so that she could point at a man in the audience and pretend he was the hero of the song. Peitho had laughed at the idea and Sansa hoped Baelish wouldn't find it ridiculous. For lack of customers, she pointed at Baelish himself and the girls who attended the rehearsal began to chuckle. Emboldened by her companions' reaction, she started to move slowly, sweeping the audience and smiling. Grinning, Edna executed a dance step with Peitho, as the other girls laughed and applauded. Baelish didn't laugh, though: he glanced around his shoulder and shushed them with a glare, before turning to the stage. Sansa's gaze kept sweeping the audience, as Peitho had told her, but every time her eyes fell on Baelish, she saw him staring at her. He ignored the dancers' efforts to show off, and focused on the singer. At some point, it disturbed her and she almost stumbled over a verse.

In the end, as Marillion's piano went silent, she watched Baelish slowly walking to the stage and stopping in front of her. The dancers docilely sat down on the wooden floor of the stage to look at their boss straight in the eyes, while Sansa stood, towering above him. Once again, he ignored the dancers, even if Mary did her best to show herself at her advantage.

"Are you satisfied?" Sansa asked coldly.

"Quite. I like that idea of pointing at someone while you sing. I almost fancied myself surrounded by women in the harem of some exotic palace."

The girls giggled, accustomed to laugh on cue at Baelish's jokes, Mary's laughter resonating longer than the other ones.

"What dress will you wear tomorrow night?" he went on, still focusing on Sansa.

She shrugged imperceptibly.

"I don't know yet. You said something about the dancers and the dance of the seven veils, so I guess the dancers' outfit is more important than mine."

"Don't be so sure."

As he leaned against the stage, Sansa took a step back instinctively. Smiling, he gave her an appreciative look and she found his gray-green eyes indiscreet.

"One of the dresses I bought you a few days ago," he commanded in an undertone. "The white one."

The uncanny sparkle in his eyes warned her he was imagining her singing and dancing on stage with that dress.

"Was it an invitation?" he asked, acting as if they were alone in the meeting hall.

"What?"

"I was thinking of the lyrics you changed, dear. _'At night when I'm asleep, Under my tent, he'll creep'_. Was it an invitation?"

Sansa looked daggers at him, scandalized and sickened by the thought._ There's this hole in the wall of my bedroom, allowing you to see anything I do, and you ask if it's an invitation?_

Still staring at her, Baelish stepped back reluctantly before walking to Peitho. As there were other dances and songs to practice, the girls all left the stage to collapse in the nearest armchairs, but Meg held back Sansa.

"What was that?" she asked, her almond-shaped eyes shining with curiosity.

"I don't know. Just Baelish giving his orders, I suppose."

"Oh come on! You saw how he looked at you, how he talked to you. Don't pretend you didn't notice, Sansa! And what dresses was he talking about?"

The mention of the dresses Baelish had offered her brought back the memory of that special afternoon and she immediately lost her temper.

"You don't need to know," she replied, a bit more stiffly than she intended.

_I sound like the Hound now_, she mused.

"Hold your horses, Miss Sansa! I'm just asking!"

"Fine. I don't feel like answering you."

Taken aback by her reaction, Meg puckered up and walked away, her belly dancer's dress billowing as she sped up. Sansa regretted the way she had talked to Meg, though she couldn't take back her words. The rest of the day bored Sansa terribly: the rehearsal dragged on and on, as Peitho didn't let anything through and the dancers' mistakes got on Sansa's nerves more than once. That day, though she couldn't explain why, she didn't manage to hide her frustration and her impatience. _But what am I waiting for? Tonight's customer is a man I don't know and tomorrow's show will be as unpleasant as the first one._ She knew what she was waiting for, yet she admonished herself for her lack of will-power. _I shouldn't think of the moment I'll see him again, because I don't know when he'll come to visit me and I'm not sure his intentions are good._

Later that day, she found Baelish in his office as she came to borrow the newspaper – in her desperate attempt to get news from Robb.

"I want you to make a good impression on your customer, tonight," Baelish told her, looking at the girl over steepled fingers. "It's important."

"Why? I thought all the customers were important."

She sounded impertinent, even if her remark had the outward appearance of a well-learned lesson. He chuckled, as she folded the newspaper and put it under her arm.

"Well, Berdokhovski is influential and most of your last customers are important too..."

_What about the Hound?_

"But some customers are just... I don't know, dear. I don't know why the Hound came to see you, in the first place. I thought he would find it pointless because he could just watch... I believed he would choose another girl and fuck her like the dog he is. I must say his persistence impresses me. With the price he pays for you, he could have two girls for the whole night."

As her face turned crimson, she realized Baelish indulged in provocation to see how she would react. _But is it possible? Do men often hire two women at the same time? Is the Hound familiar to these... things?_ Misunderstanding her confused expression, he laughed again.

"Oh Sansa. Don't you worry, he won't come back, most likely. You're way too expensive. He's in the red, now, probably in the hole, going from one pawnbroker to the other."

She clenched her fists; since Baelish couldn't see her hands disappearing under the edge of the mahogany desk, it was the only reaction she allowed herself. Did the Hound really sell all he possessed to come and visit her? She immediately thought of the necklace and the earrings Baelish had offered her ten days ago and wished she could give them to the Hound, so that he could bring the jewels to some pawn shop; unfortunately, Baelish could ask her to wear them anytime and discover how she used his gifts. _But what is the Hound going to do?_

"Never thought he cared about anything else than fighting and knocking back whiskey," Baelish added with a smug smile.

His remark infuriated her so much the idea of biting back a cutting response tempted Sansa, yet she held herself back, realizing any answer would give Baelish a clue. In the end, she simply shrugged and decided to change the subject.

"Who's that important customer who comes tonight?" she asked him.

"Addam Marbrand. He's with the homicide bureau and he'll soon become captain, thanks to the Lannisters' support."

Sansa thought she had most likely met him at the Red Mansion, before her parents' death. _So he's with the police, he knows who I am and he won't do anything to get me out of this place?_ She frowned, then locked eyes with Baelish.

"He's... a detective and he goes to the brothel?" she inquired.

The dark-haired man sitting behind the desk settled back in his armchair.

"He's an old friend of Jaime Lannister," Baelish explained, as if it justified Marbrand's questionable behavior. His gray-green eyes shone with amusement. "You really think the laws the Woman's Christian Temperance Union imposed on us changed anything? Prostitution may be illegal now thanks to those sanctimonious ladies, but places like my house still exist and policemen are faithful customers. They will always be! Now go ready yourself and be kind with him."

* * *

Addam Marbrand didn't bother himself to knock at her door: Peitho accompanied the detective and was all smiles for him when Sansa gingerly opened.

"Oh come on, Sansa, open that door wide!" the madam ordered, acting as if Sansa's cautious behavior was both whimsical and insulting for their guest. "Mr. Marbrand is a gentleman!"

Sansa glared at her but didn't say anything and the door creaked open. Addam Marbrand was a slender man in his forties, with a stern face; his only distinctive feature among the dozen of customers Sansa had seen since the first show in the meeting hall was his copper hair. Holding his hat in one hand, he greeted the girl slightly with a curt nod.

"We met before," he stated, "though you probably don't remember me. A party, at the Red Mansion. I'm sorry for your losses, Miss Stark."

She had all the trouble in the world not to slap him in the face. If Marbrand was with the homicide bureau, he had probably worked on her parents' case and he knew the truth about their death. Still, he came to taunt her and shamelessly swept the room with an appreciative look.

"Why don't you have a seat and relax while Sansa chooses a record?" Peitho suggested, already retreating from the bedroom. "Sansa is a very talented dancer. I hope you'll enjoy your time with us."

The creaking of the door warned Sansa the blond woman had left her alone with the austere, red-haired man. He smiled at her; though she was determined to hate him, she didn't find his expression mocking nor unpleasant. It was just the polite smile of a man people found courteous and that realization somewhat disturbed her. He settled himself in the oversized leather armchair with a sigh of relief, revealing it had been a long day at work. Sansa did her best to conceal the anger she felt rising inside her and went to the phonograph. She chose the songs she would dance to the night after, during the show, in order to practice them once more. At first, her customer didn't show much reaction, and she remembered Baelish had once told her she made him feel like a judge in a dance contest when she performed; for two or three songs, the detective looked so serious Sansa could mistake him for a judge and she almost expected him to give her a mark every time the phonograph went silent.

After a while, he began to smile, then he applauded at the end of _'You'd Be Surprised'_.

"If you want to have a break," he suggested, "it's just fine."

Sansa admitted that he was nicer than the average customer. He obediently stays in his armchair. _No wandering hands, no lustful look, not even the not-so-subtle innuendos that delighted the senator the other day... _He didn't shower her with compliments and gifts like Berdokhovski did, but she reluctantly admitted to herself he was not the cold monster she suspected he was after her conversation with Baelish.

During her rendition of _'The Sheik of Araby'_, she pointed at him, like she had done previously with Baelish, and she even exaggerated the swaying of her hips. His eyes widened and a laugh escaped his lips.

"Baelish didn't lie," he commented afterward, as she searched the box containing the records, "you're gifted."

"Did you like the song? I'm going to sing it tomorrow night."

_'Think of the benefit of all the girls'_, Peitho had told her._ 'Always talk about the next show we'll have. If the customers like you, they'll come back.'_

"You'll sing it tomorrow? Get ready for a round of applause, then," he said, grinning.

Sansa couldn't help but smile back at him. Until it was time for him to go, she went on dancing and singing alternatively, and he kept looking at her with a watchful gaze. In the end, he stood up, grabbed his coat and hat, then stared at her with a hint of a smile.

"I really hope you enjoyed your time here," Sansa said politely, reciting Peitho's lesson. "Do you think you will come back?"

"I did enjoy my time here, but I can't promise I'll come back. Your services are... rather expensive."

_More expensive than a whole night with two prostitutes, I know._ The bitter thought made her back stiffen.

"I'm a bit surprised you didn't ask questions," the red-haired man added, as she helped him put on his coat. "Girls usually go curious when they learn I'm a detective. Baelish told me you are curious too and he asked me not to answer your questions... still you didn't ask me anything."

She blushed and averted her gaze; dozens of questions churned in her head and she only restrained herself to ask them because she didn't want to draw his attention on her – let alone on Meryn Trant's case, if Marbrand ever worked on it. Sansa had never imagined not asking questions could arouse his suspicion.

"I- I don't know. I thought asking questions wouldn't be polite as you came here to relax after work."

She hoped her innocent smile and her doe-eyed stare would convince him. His expression was unreadable and he slowly walked to the door, before thanking her and taking his leave.

* * *

"You have so many records," Peitho exclaimed, searching in the wooden box containing the records Sansa had inherited from her father.

Unlike most people in their circle, Eddard Stark was not the kind to display his wealth, yet he afforded himself the luxury of buying records. Peitho marveled at the sight of it, picking a sleeve from time to time and even drawing the shellac 78 rpm it held.

"They're my father's," Sansa finally commented.

Far from being insignificant, the remark sounded like a warning. The records were Sansa's most prized possession because it was all she had kept from Eddard; anyone who broke or simply didn't take the utmost care of the records exposed himself to the girl's reproach. As Peitho's search went on, Sansa had more and more difficulties to hold herself back and the blond woman must have felt her impatient gaze on her, for she glanced at the girl from time to time.

"Oh, I know you don't like it when someones goes through your things, but I'm just... Oh no, not this one..."

The madam went frowning as she looked at the sleeve she had just selected; from where she was, Sansa couldn't see what record it was, so she crossed the room and planted herself next to the phonograph.

"_'Manon'_, by Massenet?" Sansa inquired. "What's the matter with it? Father said it was one of the only french operas he enjoyed."

"Your father was a man of taste, but it's a sad story."

Peitho's melancholy soon disappeared and Sansa wished the madam would sometimes give up her fake smiles to be more serious.

"_'Manon'_ is just a story," Sansa observed, a hint of provocation in her voice.

The blond woman didn't react and she feigned curiosity again, retrieving another sleeve from the box.

"Aren't you tired of all this?" Sansa asked abruptly, walking to the French window and looking at the buildings across the street.

"What are you talking about, dear?"

"This place, the shows, the customers..."

Peitho let out a deep sigh and left the box containing records to join her; her arm wrapped around the girl's shoulders.

"My sweet Sansa feels a bit sad, today?" she asked in a compassionate tone.

"I'm not sad. I'm angry."

"Well... Who are you angry at? You have all a girl in your position can dream of: a comfortable bedroom, pretty clothes, even success..."

Though Sansa bit her lip hard not to say something she would later regret, the anger she had bottled up for days suddenly exploded.

"You don't understand. You'll never understand!"

Grabbing her shoulders and making her spin on her heels, the madam forced Sansa to face her.

"I know exactly what you're going through. We're the same, you and I."

That statement, Sansa had heard it before and being compared to a woman she thought venal and morally corrupt infuriated her even more.

"I doubt that very much, Peitho. Tell me, what do we have in common?"

As she wriggled away from the blond woman and stepped back until her back hit the bathroom door, Sansa thought she barely recognized herself in that furious, cruel comment. Peitho's eyes narrowed, her pale complexion suddenly reddened: she crossed her arms about her chest and chuckled nervously.

"Look at you, dear," she said with a hint of foreign accent. "You're still a child and you speak as if you've been around... I've been through this, too."

Opening her arms wide in exasperation, Sansa erupted into anger.

"Is there one good reason why you keep saying we're the same, while obviously there can't be two persons more different from each other than you and I?"

Peitho took a few steps forward.

"If you were my daughter, I would slap you in the face," she hissed in a threatening tone.

"Thank goodness, you're nothing like my mother. My mother was a lady."

The blond woman's eyes narrowed again, though this time she saw something different in the dark irises; the woman imperceptibly frowned, as if tears annoyed her and Sansa bit her lip, realizing how mean her remark sounded.

"I shouldn't have said that," she apologized, averting her eyes. "It was stupid."

When she looked up, Peitho still stared at her, her gaze expressing both sadness and concern.

"I take all the blame on myself," Peitho replied, her voice breaking. "You see me every day acting as if I loved being a whore and selling other girls' body's, but you never got a chance to learn the truth about me... I wasn't meant to become a whore."

The blond woman let the tears roll freely down her cheeks, a poor smile on her lips. She pointed at the bathroom, thus silently asking if she could use the washstand. Sansa nodded and, as Peitho left her to splash her face with water, she patiently waited, her anxiety increasing as she feared what the madam was about to reveal. She came back, composed and serene, her previous emotional outburst only visible in her shining eyes.

Sansa tentatively took her hand and led her to the edge of the bed, where they both sat.

"I'm sorry, Peitho," she repeated.

"Don't be. I never told you how I ended up here, so you have no reason to believe I didn't really choose this life."

_What happened, then?_ Sansa still held Peitho's hand in hers: squeezing it gently, she encouraged the blond woman to talk.

"I was born Ljuba Alexandrovna Kostychyn. Quite a name, right?" she said, her voice tinged with irony. "We lived in Kiev and my father had one of the largest lumber mills in the country. I was my parents' youngest daughter and... I suppose we were happy. When I turned sixteen, I made my début. I remember I felt... intoxicated whenever a man did a double-take when I passed him. I really felt powerful at that time. I didn't fancy myself living in a big house in the countryside, like my elder sister, who had married a wealthy landowner. I wanted to travel, I wanted to live in a big city, perhaps bigger than Kiev was at that time."

She paused, smoothing her skirt. Another squeeze on her hand and Peitho resumed her story.

"I met my first love during a party. He was an officer and he had a bad reputation: gambling, womanizing... But he was handsome, a very handsome man, and I immediately pictured myself with him. We talked about Moscow and Paris until it was time for me to go and I felt something on my way home, like... a void now that I was far from him. We met again and he proposed me, though my parents didn't want to hear anything about him. He wasn't good enough for me, they said."

The blond woman's contralto voice changed and her tone foreshadowed a tragic ending.

"I persisted, and he promised me we would live happy and free from my tyrannical father. I just had to marry him and to run away... which I did, on a winter night."

She went silent again, the memories bringing more tears in her eyes.

"Two days later, I realized I had... besmirched my family's reputation and there was nothing to do about it, except take responsibility for my foolish decision. I stayed with my husband, who was quickly dismissed because of his behavior and left the army. We ended up in a small apartment and he resumed his gambling and drinking, except that now he had a wife. We ran out of money after I gave birth to a little girl. At that time, I had already broken off all ties with my family. I had no one to turn to and my husband was becoming more and more violent. He said he should have never married me, because he believed at that time we would live off my father's money but he had never imagined my family would disinherit me. He said he wanted to abandon our child. I cried, I begged him, but he didn't listen. Sick at heart, I understand I had to find money if I wanted to raise this little girl. There was this man my husband played cards with and I knew he wanted me. So I knocked at his door one night, and that's how it all began. When dawn came, I left his house wordlessly and I went back home; I was humiliated and I felt... sullied, but I had that wad of bills and I thought I could feed my daughter for days with that money."

As she listened to her story, Sansa didn't know if it was proper or not to look at Peitho. When the woman stopped talking again, she let her eyes fall away from the armchair she contemplated so far and drift back towards her: Peitho was crying.

"When I came back, my daughter was gone. My husband had taken her to some orphanage; he refused to say which one, because he knew I would go there. He had bought train tickets to go to Moscow and to start a new life, he said. So we went to Moscow but nothing changed, except he knew what I had done and he now intended to take advantage of his wife's beauty. We spent six months like this, until I found the occasion to leave him. I became a minister's mistress, but I was broken inside and I felt the urge to put as much space between my old life and myself. I had several lovers, all rich and powerful. I suppose I could have come back to Kiev to find my daughter, now that I didn't live with her father anymore, but instead of going back to her, I just tried to intoxicate myself with parties. That and men's look; I always need to feel they desire me. One day, my new lover took me to Paris. We were supposed to stay only a few weeks, but when it was time to go back to Russia, I decided to stay and I spent five years there. For some reason, I felt much better in a foreign country, surrounded by unknown people. When I got bored with Paris, I bought tickets to cross the ocean and I arrived in New York."

Silence stretched in the room as she waited for Sansa's reaction. Understanding the girl didn't know what to say after her confession, Peitho shifted slightly and turned to her.

"Sansa, I'm not saying you would make the terrible mistakes I made. I hope you'll be lucky and you'll never go through what I experienced, but sometimes when I look at you, I recognize the girl I once was... and I know it seems weird, but my daughter would be your age by now and you make me think of her."

Her misty dark eyes met Sansa's and she brushed the girl's cheek. Sansa hesitated, then clumsily took her in her arms; Peitho stiffened a bit, then relaxed and finally clung to her, bursting into tears.

"I'm so sorry," Sansa whispered, not sure Peitho could hear her through her sobbing. "You deserve better than that," she added, breaking away from the blond woman. "You're beautiful, you're smart, you speak several languages... You shouldn't be here. You should marry a good man and start a new life elsewhere."

Peitho wiped her tears, smiling nervously at Sansa's compliment.

"You're a darling, really... I don't deserve better than that, though, and I'll never find a husband who accepts my past. As a matter of fact, I'm pretty lucky to live here instead of some other place. I lost everything the day I ran away from home. I don't really have a choice, now. What can I do, except adapting myself to adverse circumstances? That's what I've been doing for years."

"Is that why you hate _'Manon'_?" Sansa asked.

"A well-born girl who becomes a prostitute and loses everything... Why should it ring a bell?" she said, seemingly laughing at herself. "I wouldn't say I hate _'Manon'_. It's just that I saw this opera once in Paris and the story broke my heart."

Still squeezing Peitho's hands, Sansa looked at her again.

"Did you hear from your daughter?" she shyly inquired.

The blond woman shook her head, repressing a sob.

"No. I know what you think, child. _'Why didn't she come back to her daughter, now that she's rich?'_ I'm not rich. Whores never become rich: they show off, they wear the jewels men offer them, but they're penniless so to speak. And even if I had money, why would I go back to Kiev? What do I have to give my daughter? I would just bring shame upon her; it's better for her not to know who I am and how I live. In the meanwhile, I try to take good care of you. I'll do my best to protect you in this shady world of ours."

_Help me escape this house, then._ As the blond woman gave her a faint smile, Sansa understood Peitho would never help her: she had lived that life for too long, forgetting her older self and the dreams she once had in favor of the immediate satisfaction her customers' gifts provided. The woman's resignation struck her, questioning her own ability to run away from the gorgeous house Baelish had locked her in. If a woman as brave and determined as Peitho had lost hope, could Sansa find the strength to leave this place?

Sansa spent the rest of the day thinking of Kiev and of the hardships Peitho had been through, until she heard a knock at her door. When the door squeaked on its hinges, she saw Rose's sullen face and she told her to come in. That unexpected visit lifted her spirits: Sansa had told the cook to go to the Red Mansion and to find the Hound. During the last night he had spent in the brothel, he had agreed on talking to the old woman to decide if she was trustworthy or not. Smiling and even beaming, the girl welcomed Rose, shutting the door behind her.

"Tell me Rose, did you talk to the Hound? Did he give you a message for me?"

The cook's dour expression, as she swept the room and set her piercing gaze on her host disheartened Sansa. The Hound didn't give old women messages for young, featherbrained girls. He didn't give messages at all, nor kisses; he did as he thought best, not caring for other people's opinion. _Not caring for my feelings._

"Well... what did you talk about?" Sansa said tentatively, anxiety slowing down her delivery.

"Trust," Rose spat, anger making her faded blue eyes brighter. "Loyalty. We didn't talk much, though. There's a reason why he goes by that stupid nickname, the Hound."

Glaring, she rolled up her sleeve, revealing the pale skin of her forearm; Sansa recoiled at the sight of the bruises on her wrist.

"What- what happened?" she finally stammered, her mind frantically looking for an answer that exonerated the Hound.

"What happened?" Rose repeated in a mocking tone. "You told me to go and to see your friend, that Clegane or whatever he's called, and that's what he did to me. He nearly broke my arm! Threatened me... He told me I would die a horrible death if I betrayed you. He refused to listen to me when I said I only wanted to help."

An uncomfortable silence wrapped them as klaxons resonated in the street.

"He said he doesn't know when he'll come back here, 'cause he's in the red," Rose added.

Sansa helplessly moved her eyes between the cook's angry face and the dark hues circling her forearm. That was the Hound's deed, that was the world she lived in.


	9. A Red-Haired Flapper

The large mirror on Peitho's dressing table reflected the blond woman's look and her secretive smile, two things that kept surprising Sansa every time she glanced at the shining surface of the glass; the woman who ruled the brothel in Baelish's absence wrapped herself in mystery, most of the time, and she constantly wore a half-smile suggesting she knew things people ignored. It fascinated Sansa, as much as the madam's outward confidence – before she learned the truth about Peitho's past.

After their conversation in Sansa's bedroom, however, the blond woman had looked more concerned and sad than she usually did. Her smiles were fake and girls glanced at each other, wondering why she seemed to feel under the weather. That morning, mischief had replaced the persistent melancholy Sansa had seen in her eyes after Peitho's confession.

As she was combing the madam's long blond hair, Sansa saw her gazing at the mirror, then locking eyes with her through their reflection on the flawless surface.

"I... have a surprise for you," Peitho said. Amusement laced each syllable. "No rehearsal, today. I asked a famous hair-dresser to come this afternoon and he'll take care of your... dark-red locks."

"Auburn locks," Sansa corrected.

"Auburn, then. And a woman specialized in corsetry will come here, as well. She will show you some fashionable lingerie – what you Americans call undergarments, I suppose."

"That's very kind, but why do these people come here?" Sansa asked. "Can't we just go to the places they work in?"

Peitho turned around and rested her elbow on the back of her seat, chuckling.

"Well, no, it's more convenient and more fun if they come and treat us like princesses."

_Oh really? Can't you be sincere, for a change, and admit you invited them here because I'm a prisoner and Baelish doesn't want me to leave the house?_ Ignoring her frown, Peitho seemingly anticipated her guests' arrival and began to hum.

"Why?" Sansa asked, catching her unawares. "Why did you invite these people?"

The blond woman lowered her head until her chin rested on her hands gripping the back of her seat in a childish pose.

"I like you and... I decided you deserved a reward after your hard work during the last shows."

Sansa repressed a shiver when she heard the word 'reward'; luckily, the blond woman was staring into space and didn't see her cringing.

"You had so many customers in two weeks. Or is it three weeks?" Peitho went on. "God knows you're gorgeous, but a few changes to enhance your beauty will do no harm, right?"

Sansa was puzzled; she couldn't say why, the idea of spending time with a hair-dresser didn't cause the excitement one would expect from her. Her former self would have been delighted, but the prospect of meeting a man who wanted to change the way she did her hair bothered her this time.

After the morning chores and lunch, the hair-dresser knocked at the massive door of the brothel and Peitho let him in with a broad grin; the other girls saw him and wondered what the slender, eccentric man with a thin black mustache was doing in Baelish's house. They rolled their eyes when they understood he had come for Sansa and not for them, which confirmed Sansa's apprehension. _Once more, I'm the spoiled child and everyone has a good reason to envy me. But I didn't ask. I never wanted this._

Peitho led the man, who carried a suitcase containing his equipment upstairs, chatting and joking with him while Sansa followed obediently.

"We'll go in my apartments," Peitho explained. "It will be more convenient."

As Sansa expected it, the man marveled at the sight of Peitho's room and complimented her for its classical yet elegant decoration; then, he turned to Sansa, as if he first saw her and, putting down his suitcase, he opened his arms wide in a theatrical gesture.

"My Goodness! What a lovely girl! It's a pleasure for me to devote my art to the service of such a darling!"

Sansa bit her tongue not to burst out laughing and she smiled politely at the hair-dresser who kept praising her beauty. Peitho walked to the girl and took her in her arms, thus expressing her pride.

"Isn't she splendid?" she asked, turning to the man with a conspiratorial smile. "Tell me you're going to make my beloved Sansa even more beautiful."

"My dear, I will do my best to make her sublime, but what's a miserable hair-dresser compared to a mother? You did all the work!"

Peitho's grin vanished when she understood his veiled reference: the man thought he was subtle while addressing this compliment and he turned pale when he realized his mistake.

"I'm not her mother," the madam coldly replied.

At that moment, Peitho still had her slender arms around Sansa's neck; she stiffened a bit, eager not to show her disappointment and she slowly removed her hands to bring them to her hips.

"You probably think I'm much younger than I really am," Sansa offered, trying to make up for the hair-dresser's blunder. "Yesterday night, a customer asked me if Peitho and I were sisters. That's what most people believe-"

She stopped short from saying more, noticing Peitho's unease as the girl trapped herself in dubious explanations. The hair-dresser babbled his apologies and by a silent agreement, they all turned to the dressing table.

"Well, first, I'd like to see your hair without all these hairpins you use," the hair-dresser commanded, regaining his composure as far as his field of expertise was concerned. "Just remove them all, child."

Standing by the dressing table, while Peitho and the hair-dresser looked at her, Sansa obeyed, putting down the pins on the edge of the table. When it was over, her auburn locks covered most of her back. Facing the mirror, the girl wanted to observe her companions, but all she could see was Peitho's bust with her folded arms and the hair-dresser's constant smile. She cautiously glanced over her shoulder.

"What are you going to do?" she inquired, each word revealing her nervousness.

The man stepped forward and put protective hands on the girl's upper arms; far from reassuring Sansa, it only increased her bad feeling.

"You're an authentic beauty with your pale skin and red hair. But your- your friend asked me to give a modern twist to your hair-style. You're going to love it."

The man's comforting words didn't convince her, but she couldn't protest, could she? Peitho's encouraging gaze told her it was already too late to express reservations.

"By the end of the day, you'll be the most exquisite flapper who lives in New York," the blond woman promised her.

One hour later, Sansa did her best to conceal her opinion about the hair-dresser's work. As she gazed at her reflection in the mirror, her disappointment bordered on depression. _Bobbed hair, that's what they call it._ Like Edna's dark hair, hers had been cut at about the level of the jaw-line and straightened. A fringe hid her high forehead.

_Mother loved my hair_, she thought, biting her bottom lip. At her feet and all around the chair she was sitting in, auburn curls had fallen, creating strange patterns on the oriental rug. _Mother loved my hair. Sometimes, at night, she combed it herself. She wouldn't like this. _Raising her gaze, she stared at her reflection and what she saw puzzled her. The young woman looking back at her was undoubtedly more fashionable than the girl who had followed Peitho and the hair-dresser in the staircase one hour before.

The dreamy look her low chignon gave her had disappeared, giving way to a more determined expression. Whenever she pouted, she looked like one of these actresses whose portrait was visible on posters, throughout the city. Her former self was gone, replaced by a bolder version of the girl who had arrived in Grand Central Station two years before. Somehow, she was exactly what she wanted to look like at that time, when she fancied herself living in New York and now that she had the appearance of a flapper, it didn't interest her anymore. _Is it what I look like, now? Being a flapper is more than wearing a bob-cut. Flappers do what they want and they don't care about everyone else's opinion. Flappers are free. I'm not free._

"You're beautiful," Peitho told her, wrapping her arms around her shoulders and kissing her temple. "My delicious little flapper. My turn, now."

Sansa reluctantly pushed herself from her seat and asked if she could keep one of her locks. Peitho and the hair-dresser chuckled, wondering what she would do with it.

"I think she's getting sentimental," the blond woman explained, staring at Sansa who knelt to pick a long, glossy auburn strand.

_I have a heart and you sometimes forget you have one, too_, she mused, exasperated by the hair-dresser's laughter. The hair-dresser put away his scissors and advised Peitho about the way she could do her hair to look younger or more fashionable. In the end, he left them and the blond woman let out a sigh of contentment.

"Our other guest shouldn't be long now, with her incredible underwear. She has a knack for these things... She knows exactly what I love about lingerie," Peitho told her.

_Lingerie. Mother never used that word._ It sounded a little too fancy and too daring for Catelyn Stark who believed clothes had to be functional and elegant rather than fashionable and who had rolled her eyes at the sight of shorter skirts at the end of the war. Not that her mother didn't like to buy a pretty dress for herself from time to time, but there had to be some good reason.

That circumspect attitude towards clothing had exasperated Sansa more than once, back in Saint-Paul or once they had moved to New York. Catelyn was so different from Cersei in that respect the young and naïve Sansa she was at that time had found the comparison hilarious. Giving up the simple pleasure of buying a new dress seemed a bit drastic and she would never agree to such an extreme measure, but she now understood why her mother frowned whenever she saw women rushing into department stores such as Saks & Company and Bergdorf Goodman: Catelyn had more important things to do in her life.

The woman Peitho had invited was a plump blond in her fifties, with a slight squint and who had the bad habit of pinching Sansa's cheek as if she still was eight years old. She came in Peitho's bedroom with her young assistant and they spread out on the bed the countless items they had brought in the brothel. In her entire life, Sansa had never seen as many petticoats and girdles. Since the other girls had not been allowed to meet the hairdresser and to make the most of his visit, Peitho asked some of them to come – her favorites, Sansa guessed.

The sight of undergarments thrilled Edna, Mary, Dorothy and Lois: they jumped up and down, chattered with passion and said they wanted to try on everything. For Peitho and the two women she had invited, it was a sweeping change compared to Sansa's cautious attitude and the bedroom was suddenly filled with exclamations and laughter.

The other girls complimented Sansa for her new haircut, Edna insisting on the fact that she was much more attractive with her short hair, Dorothy saying that she was the spitting image of some actress Sansa had never heard about. Slow but steady, Sansa's lack of enthusiasm about her bobbed hair faded out, and it finally disappeared. Her mother wasn't there to comb her long hair nor to praise its auburn color, so what was the point in keeping the same haircut forever? Edna promised her she spent less time in the bathroom, combing and taking care of her hair since she had adopted the fashionable bob-cut and that argument had overpowered the last remains of hesitation Sansa had bottled up during the afternoon.

Soon enough, the girls began to try on the novelties; as Peitho changed herself in her bathroom, Dorothy and Lois decided to forgo modesty and began to undress on the spot. Blushing, Sansa turned her back on their half-naked figures, making the girls laugh again.

"She's a lady," Lois commented, speaking as if Sansa wasn't there. "Beyond a doubt."

"God, if she's so shy when we remove our clothes, how is she going to do with her first customer?" Mary asked, abruptly showing her concern. "Her first real customer, I mean."

Nobody dared answer Mary's question. _I will never have a real customer, because the Hound will take me away before it happens_, Sansa mused. _I'll never have to sell my body, hopefully._ The same anxiety that haunted her since her arrival in Baelish's brothel came back, turning upside down her certainties. She could be disappointed in the most cruel way, for she had already backed the wrong horse and she had fallen to earth with a bang more than once. No matter how bitter the disillusion had been, she still hoped her future would be brighter: on a good day, it seemed wise and necessary, like the expression of her survival instinct, but on a bad day, she called herself a fool to be so naïvely optimistic.

"Why don't you put these on?" Edna told her, shoving a pair of garters and silk stockings in Sansa's hands.

The dark-haired woman was smiling encouragingly; Sansa didn't dare refuse but her shoulders sagged with frustration when she realized Peitho was still inside her bathroom. As the girls expected her to put aside modesty and to change clothes in front of them, she swept the room until she found a corner between the desk and the wall and she put on the items Edna had given her.

Afterward, the girls insisted on seeing if the stockings fitted Sansa so she was forced to show most of her legs. Mary whistled with admiration and Peitho, who had finally left the bathroom, complimented her. Eager to sell as many items as possible, the plump blonde Peitho had invited made Sansa try on see-through nightgowns, brassieres and step-in panties. In a trice, Sansa felt like the undergarment retailer and the girls had turned her into a doll they dressed and undressed ad libitum because she was too embarrassed to protest.

With the clothes scattered across the floor and the half-naked women who filled the room with laughter, Peitho's apartments looked like a modern version of a seraglio, a merry gynaeceum where girls exchanged clothes and observed each other. Peitho was taller than anyone else, but only one inch taller than Edna or Sansa; Sansa had the longest legs and Mary envied her for that. As for Dorothy and Lois, the blond sisters argued endlessly to know which one of them had bigger breasts. They all agreed on the fact that Mary's round bottom was her best asset. In the end, Sansa almost found the situation funny, even if she couldn't quite get accustomed to the sight of the girls' naked breasts. _In what kind of place am I? _she asked herself when the madam took her hand and dragged her to the cheval mirror.

"Look at us," Peitho said, posing in a lace petticoat and wrapping a protective arm around Sansa's waist. "Aren't we beautiful?" The blond woman rested her head in the crook of Sansa's neck, giving an appreciative look to the girl's outfit - brassiere, panties and silk stockings. "Tell me, child, who could resist us?"

As they stayed like this, facing the mirror, Sansa breathed in Peitho's distinctive perfume – oak-moss and bergamot; little by little, she got used to that smell and identified it as the friendly yet secretive woman who ruled the brothel. After the dreadful night when Meryn Trant had come, it had even been a smell she associated with comfort – an altered, distorted vision of what comfort should be, now that she looked back on it.

Until that day, Peitho had been her boss, her adviser; she had tried to become a mother figure and even a friend the afternoon she had confided in Sansa. Still, an invisible barrier remained between them, because Sansa stubbornly refused the future Baelish had given her, that same future Peitho believed the girl would finally accept, if only she found her advantage in it. The madam imagined that advantage could take the shape of jewels and pretty clothes – items Baelish lavishly provided her – and whenever Sansa rejected the things that made Peitho happy, or that dissipated her melancholy, she insulted the blond woman. Thus, Sansa didn't dare protest and let Peitho hold her tightly.

At some point, a mischievous spark appeared in Peitho's dark eyes and she kissed Sansa's neck, a daring gesture which made the girl blush instantly. _What was that? _They were half-naked, Peitho had her arms around Sansa's waist and what that kiss suggested disturbed her. As usual, the other girls laughed at her embarrassment and Sansa felt glad they were not alone in the bedroom.

In the end, Peitho bought a heap of petticoats, girdles, stockings and brassieres, following which the retailer and her assistant retreated with the undergarments the girls had neglected. Every girl left Peitho's room with a small pile of lace fabric, giggling and whispering thanks.

"See," Edna said, nudging Sansa. "It was fun."

* * *

With the customers coming to see her dance every night, Sansa had only briefly met Evie since the afternoon Baelish had answered some of her questions. They had not found enough time to talk and Sansa's apprehension only grew with each passing day. How could she explain to Evie what Baelish wanted to do with her child? How could she help her escape if she was stuck in the house? However, Sansa decided to rush upstairs and to knock at her door one Sunday afternoon, as most of the girls had taken a day off. She found the young woman sitting on her bed, one hand on her round belly; as soon as she saw Sansa, a broad grin lit up her face and she motioned the girl to the only chair available, before grabbing the slate and piece of chalk she kept under her mattress.

"How do you feel?" Sansa asked.

_"Lazy. What about you?" _she wrote hastily on the slate.

Sansa felt embarrassed; with anyone else, ten minutes of small talk would be necessary before getting to the heart of the matter, but such courtesies didn't exist with Evie. Silence stretched in the cubby-hole where Evie slept, until the pregnant woman made the piece of chalk squeak against the dark surface of the slate.

_"What do you want to talk about, Sansa?"_

Sansa shut her eyes tight for a second, realizing there were not many ways to explain what she had learned from Baelish.

"I've been talking with Baelish and... I asked him about you, about the child. He told me he wanted to give your baby to some rich family... I should say he wants to sell the baby... You can't stay here any longer, you have to go away before it happens..."

Evie didn't flinch: when Sansa looked at her pale face, she only saw something akin to resignation. Evie took the slate again and wrote in big letters:_ "I know."_

_But how is it possible? If she already knows, why didn't she run away? _Evie silently took in Sansa's bewilderment, let out a sigh and reached out to grab Sansa's hand in a comforting gesture.

"Why?" Sansa asked. "Why don't you just... leave?"

The squeaking of chalk was the first answer she got, before Evie locked eyes with her.

_"When you work in a brothel, you give up everything. You don't own anything."_

She wiped the slate with her hand, then wrote again.

_"You don't own your body. I guess even this child isn't mine."_

Sansa didn't notice it at first, but she was crying silently.

_"Don't mistake me. I love the baby."_

Evie paused, visibly fighting back tears, before going on.

_"But where would I go? How can I take care of him? Or her?"_

The memory of Peitho's confession came back unbeknownst to her, forcing its way through her mind; after their conversation, she had imagined Peitho's daughter was brought to some sordid orphanage, some blond little girl all alone in a huge room with dozens of abandoned children. For a reason Sansa couldn't explain, she pictured the place like a deserted hospital isolated in a snow-covered landscape. _No, she thought. Things can't happen like this. Even if Evie's baby is supposed to end up in a wealthy family instead of living in an orphanage. Evie can take care of this child. She just needs help._

Sniffing, she resolutely raised her eyes and saw Evie's sad expression.

"Assuming you have a roof over your head and... a job, would you keep this child?" Sansa asked.

Forgetting about the slate, Evie nodded eagerly, muttering something the girl recognized as "of course".

_"Of course if I lived anywhere else and if I had a respectable job." _Evie wiped again the slate, adding hastily: _"I would work day and night to raise my child."_

Then, Evie let her eyes fall away; she stared into space for long seconds, before taking the piece of chalk she had kept.

_"But you can't help me; you're still stuck here. Don't take risks for me."_

"What kind of risks are we talking about?" Sansa said, gesturing with frustration. "Did you ever try to escape?"

In spite of her interrogative tone, she already knew the answer. The reason why the girls, including Evie, stayed in Baelish's house instead of flying away, came down to one word: submission. Girls obeyed and didn't leave because years of intimidation and contempt had crushed their will; their feelings, theirs dreams had been extracted one by one, the slow and mind-numbing process making them a bunch of bodies men could rent for an hour or for a night.

"Why don't we try?" Sansa went on, as Evie shook her head sadly. "Right now?"

Evie reluctantly pushed herself from the sagging bed she slept in and followed her downstairs. Sansa suspected it was more because she wanted to make sure her friend wouldn't get into trouble than because Evie agreed on her plan.

Once on the first floor, they tiptoed to the entrance door, Evie growing nervous and stopping to listen from time to time. Sansa reassuringly took her hand, though she wasn't overconfident. _Keep calm. You're just having a look and nobody's here to stop you. But what if there's no one to stop us? Shall we go? Where to go, then?_ Baelish's office was locked and she knew he wasn't there; still, the sight of the heavy wooden door sent shivers down her spine, when she realized what she was up to do. _The church. The nearest church, it doesn't matter if it's a catholic church or not. They will help us._

How her shaking hand found the door handle, Sansa couldn't explain it: the next thing she did was opening the door cautiously. Evie cringed and held Sansa's hand tighter as the hinges creaked ominously. _Outside. The real world. The world I belong to._

Her heart beat wildly in her chest as she crossed the threshold, firmly leading Evie on the front steps. Despite the cold, greyish light of December, despite the wind that made them shiver in the nondescript street where Baelish's house was located, a breath of freedom raised a smile on Sansa's face even if dozens of questions came tumbling out in her head. _Where is the nearest church? What about the money? We can't live on people's charity. I should have taken the earrings Baelish offered me. If Evie waits for me at the end of the street, I'll run upstairs, I'll take the jewels, two coats and I'll join her as soon as-_

"What the hell are you doing here?"

A large hand grabbed her shoulder and forced her to spin on her heels while Evie instantly recoiled. In the doorway stood a man she had never met so far: solidly built, he had a square jaw and a squashed nose. She supposed he was as old as Baelish, or perhaps older, because his hair was gray and his forehead was wrinkled.

"Inside. Now," the man commanded.

Sansa reacted as the spoiled girl she sometimes was before her parents' death.

"We were just... taking some fresh air. Who are you?" she inquired, crossing her arms about her chest. She briefly met Evie's eyes and forbid her to obey the unknown man.

"My name's Lothor Brune," he growled, motioning the girls inside the house. "Mr. Baelish told me to watch the house in his absence and to prevent anyone from coming in. He didn't add I would have to prevent your flight."

His imposing bearing convinced Sansa she didn't have any chance to succeed if she ran away and tried to leave him behind; she also noticed the pistol in his shoulder holster.

"Why didn't I see you before?" she asked again, reluctant to give up so easily.

"Mr. Baelish hired me a few days ago and there's the reason why he chose me."

"Which is?" she went on, her mocking tone seemingly annoying Lothor Brune.

"I'm discreet."

With that, he grabbed her upper arm and led her inside before doing the same with Evie and slamming the door. _I hate that sound._ It usually meant a customer had arrived in but in this case, the unpleasant noise reminded her she was a prisoner and so was Evie.

"So you're here to protect us?" she said, as Evie sheepishly walked to the staircase.

"I guess you can say that."

"Did Mr. Baelish hire some other people, or is it just you?"

"You're asking too many questions for a girl who only opened the door to get some fresh air," he replied, smiling. His expression brought out his squashed nose, making him more ugly than he really was.

_He knows. He saw us walking on tiptoe to the entrance door and glancing to be sure nobody watched us._

"You're the girl I see from time to time on her balcony, right? I'm sure you can get some fresh air upstairs."

_The balcony. I should have thought of it before. _Feigning obedience, she crossed the entrance hall, reached the staircase and called Evie, whose condition slowed down the pace. The red-haired girl was on her way to the third floor, when Sansa's voice stopped her.

"Join me in my room, please," Sansa pleaded.

Evie rolled her eyes, as if she was telling her younger friend _'I told you so'_, but she followed Sansa all the same. Once inside, she showed Evie the bathroom and its large window; the fire escape was easy to reach, at least Sansa kept repeating it to herself.

"You can escape this way," she told Evie. "It's just a flight of stairs. All you have to do is step over the window ledge and you're outside."

At first, Evie refused, clinging to Sansa. After a while, she nonetheless decided to give a try and she contorted herself – despite her round belly – to step over the window ledge. Sansa thought she was almost there, when Evie's face tensed and she put her hands on her tummy with a panicked gesture. Sansa grabbed her upper arm and prevented her from falling just in time. They put off their attempt to use the fire escape; Evie sat on the bed, trying to catch her breath. She didn't want Sansa to call anyone – especially not the doctor who seemed to scare her – it was not the first time she had that kind of faintness and there was nothing to do about it. In the end, she thanked Sansa for her solicitude and left the girl with her persistent frustration.

* * *

She had butterflies in her stomach and there was no way of denying it. Her shaky, clammy hands, her red cheeks and her nervous smile were the Hound's deed and it didn't get any better when he came in. She had straightened her hair and applied lipstick in contemplation of his arrival; she had perhaps been heavy-handed with her perfume, but after all, it was the first time he paid her a visit since the confusing night when he had waited for her in her bedroom. There was a change, though, and she immediately smelt fresh soap on his skin as she helped him remove his overcoat; his hair was still damp, showing he had taken a bath before leaving the Red Mansion.

Even after a bath, even if the faint perfume of soap contrasted with the reek of alcohol she had smelt on him the last time he had come in Baelish's house, she recognized the typical smell she associated with him: tobacco and whiskey. _He isn't drunk, though. He doesn't have bloodshot eyes tonight but his clothes smell of whiskey: you'd say he spends his days inside a warehouse full of whiskey casks._

Far from soothing her nerves, the notion that the Hound was sober disturbed her even more. Was he going to explain his behavior? Did he plan to tell her what had happened to Meryn Trant's?_ Don't forget he probably did all this for you. You should be flattered and grateful. _After folding his overcoat and putting it on the console table, as she always did, she slowly walked back to him, giving him enough time to contemplate the blue dress she wore that night and planting herself in front of him. She pointed at his shoulder holster.

"Are you going to keep this?" she asked.

He nodded silently, the unburnt side of his face twitching as he stared at her.

"What happened to your hair?" he asked in a low growl.

_God, he doesn't like it. _She could see disapproval in his gray eyes.

"Peitho insisted on... inviting a hair-dresser here and he cut my hair. It's... more fashionable."

_Said like that, it sounds completely stupid. _The Hound reached out and brushed the straightened, auburn strands near her jaw.

"I loved your long hair," he rasped.

His reproachful tone struck her and she averted her eyes as he still touched her hair. Her heart pounded wildly and when he finally let his arm fall to his side, she didn't move; despite his dark hair hanging as he looked down at her and covering most of his face, Sansa felt his eyes roaming over her slender form. A simple stare made her helpless and that realization incensed her; she gave him a faint scowl, then she found it hard not to insult the Hound. _It's unfair. I'm there, helping him with his coat, smiling, trying to be kind, and what does he do? Instead of repaying my kindness with some explanation about the last time we met, he criticizes my haircut and he eyes me shamelessly. And I don't even move, as if I enjoyed the situation. Stupid Sansa!_

Finding some courage in self-flagellation, she pointed at him.

"In my world, people apologize when they behaved like rude, boorish persons," she spat. "They apologize for hitting old women and for frightening girls."

"In your world?" he repeated, stepping forward and towering above her threateningly. "It's been ages since I didn't listen to the perfect, polished daughter of Catelyn Stark. I didn't come here for apologies. People usually don't ask me to apologize, for some reason."

_Why did he take the trouble to have a bath before coming, then? Isn't that a proof he wants to make amends?_

"Time is running out, girl," he told her, boring into her eyes. "You should turn on that damn phonograph, or Baelish is going to knock at this door, wondering what I'm doing to you."

Furious, she crossed the room and chose a record at random before placing it on the turntable. As the trumpet played a cheerful tune, she stepped back and bumped into him. She felt his hands grabbing her upper arms and making her turn around. She repressed the urge to push him away from her, knowing it was pointless and once more, she blamed herself. _I can't think straight when he's here: I hit the ceiling, I cry, I even beg him..._

"What about your scars?" he said, stopping her self-examination.

"My scars? They're fine, thank you."

The traces of anger he recognized in her tone made him smile.

"You don't know anything about scars, girl. Show me your back and I'll tell you if they're fine or not."

_No, not again. Think of something... anything that shuts him up._

"Very well," she answered. "You remember I cleaned your cuts, last time? Or did you forget that, too?"

He frowned at what she implied and she saw the stormy eyes grew darker; leaning back against the table supporting the phonograph, she tried to put as much space as she could between herself and the Hound.

"There's no reason why I should be the only one showing the gashes I have," she stiffly went on.

_He won't agree. He doesn't like to be touched, he even refused to answer my questions about his cuts. He won't agree-_

"Deal," he said, with a challenging look.

Before she could protest, he got rid of his shoulder holster, then removed his gray waistcoat and threw it on the bed. Staring at her defiantly, he unbuttoned his shirt, and, with a hastiness that left her dumbfounded, he took off his shirt and undershirt. The rippling muscles produced on her the effect she expected and dreaded at the same time. _Confusion. Blushing. Why does he make me so weak? God, he's... I can't say 'handsome', nobody would associate that word with the Hound... 'Impressive' suits him better._ She liked 'impressive': it didn't give the impression she was falling for him but it did justice to the Hound's uncommon build and thick muscles.

The Hound took a step forward and squared his shoulders. _He knows, I'm sure he knows. _A rapid glance at his face convinced her he enjoyed the situation and took a perverse pleasure in watching her reddening cheeks. Ignoring his crooked half-smile, she focused on his chest: she soon came to the conclusion that he was so tall she couldn't do otherwise when he stood in front of her, that his massive shoulders obstructed the view. The scars, old or new, had left paler marks on his skin; she mentally tried to draw a map of his cuts and she gave up when remembering he had removed his clothes for another reason.

_The wound you cleaned, Sansa: focus on it._ She easily found it again, for the deep cut on his collarbone had turned into a long scar, the pinkish color of the scar tissue standing out against his skin.

"See. It's clean," he rasped. "The Little Bird made a fuss about it, but it was nothing."

Despite the reproach and the teasing his words conveyed, there was a sort of tenderness in his tone that made her blush again. She felt something deep inside her; it was vague and she couldn't explain what was happening to her, nor why. The situation was so embarrassing she wanted to be done with it and at the same time she wished it never ended. _I'm completely mad. It's ridiculous._

She averted her eyes and let them fall on his muscled arms; although dark hair covered his forearms, there were scars by places – probably more than on his chest – and she noticed a thin, long gash on his right arm, next to the wrist. This one was fresh, the blood on its edges barely coagulated.

"What is this?" she asked, hoping he wouldn't see the goosebumps on her skin.

She bit her lip at once, recalling how he had answered her last inquiries about his cuts. _Please don't shout at me, this time._

"Nothing," he shrugged. "I carried some casks from one place to another, today. Must have scratched my arm with a damn nail."

"You have to clean this," she lectured him. "If you scrape your hands with a nail-"

"Want to play doctor? Fine."

His remark disturbed her even more: the innuendo, uttered with a detached tone, turned her into a little girl... or an easy lay. _I'm not an easy lay; I dressed myself up for him and I try to be as kind as possible, that's all._

"I just want to apply iodine on your cut," she explained, offended, and she led him to the bathroom.

Before she could open the closet to take the bottle of iodine, the song ended and she went back to her phonograph, picking this time _'You'd be Surprised'_. Irving Berlin's music filled the room; when Sansa turned to the bathroom, she saw the Hound's large figure in the door frame, staring at her.

"You always choose that song when you're ill-at-ease, or when you need encouragement," he commented as she move past him.

_He's observant. Much more than I am._ She had never realized _'You'd be Surprised' _was for her as comforting as a pair of old sleepers.

"It's just that... I love that song," she said, unsuccessfully trying to sound as detached as he was.

The Hound was able to see past this poor explanation.

"What are you afraid of, Little Bird?"

Instead of answering his question, Sansa removed her long gloves, opened the closet, then retrieved the small bottle containing iodine. _What am I afraid of? Imagining what you could do to me makes me uncomfortable... though I'm more afraid of what iId let you do to me._

"Wash your hands and forearms," she ordered him.

The Hound complied, before wiping his hands on a towel, while she prepared a compress. Though he didn't say anything and didn't even look at her, she felt the tension growing in the confined space of the bathroom and she rued the unease that made her hands shaky. He silently faced her and he extended his arm, palm turned to the ceiling, so that she could tend to his wound. Sansa's eyes moved from his face to the large, callous hand he held out to her – that same hand that had squeezed the life out of Meryn Trant, she thought. She observed the long fingers, the old scars on the lifeline, the hardened skin on the phalanges for a while, before placing a hesitating hand under his and applying the compress soaked with iodine on the gash near his wrist.

"Does it hurt?" she asked, eager to break the awkward silence.

Seemingly careless of her unease and reluctant to make conversation, the Hound only shook his head. He stared at her, she could tell it, though his hanging hair covered his scars and most of his face, showing only the glisten of his eye; he contemplated her and he bid his time. When the cut was cleaned, she threw the compress in the bin and thoroughly washed her hands, wondering what was next. She still had her hands under the faucet when she felt his on her back, buttoning down her dress.

"Can't you just wait?" she protested, scandalized by his manners.

"No, I can't," he mumbled and she soon became aware it was true; he couldn't wait any longer after days without seeing her.

Sansa heard him cursing when he saw she wore a brassiere under her blue dress. He vainly tried to get rid of the bothersome undergarment until she helped him. _What am I doing? If he asks for more than checking on my back, how am I going to refuse now?_

Because of the incongruous situation, she had kept her eyes downcast so far but his uneven breathing startled Sansa and made her raise her gaze; above the washstand, the mirror reflected his face, still half-covered by his dark hair. Captivated by the sight of her back, he ran his knuckles on her shoulders, his mouth ajar.

"Hold your dress," he said under his breath.

She hardly had the time to grasp the neckline of her dress before he slipped his thumb between her skin and the straps, then let it slide off her shoulder. _He could do anything_, she mused, that notion made her giddy. When he had his fill of silent observation, he helped her get dressed again. The only noise coming from the phonograph was the crackle of the needle against the record; Sansa hurried herself to the phonograph and replaced her favorite song by another one she chose at random. Meanwhile, the Hound put on his clothes and settled in the oversized leather armchair his height and his solid built made common.

_Now I want explanations. _Her heart beat wildly as she turned to him; however, she decided not to ask him head-on and she pointed at the small table next to the armchair.

"There are sandwiches, if you're hungry. And whiskey, too," she offered.

"Whiskey? You want me to get drunk? I thought Eddard Stark's daughter disapproved drunkenness. What makes you so reckless, girl?"

Ignoring his mocking tone, she walked to the table, took the small carafe Rose had filled with an amber-colored liquid and poured some in a glass she held out to the Hound.

"I suppose you need more than that to get drunk," she commented. "But there's water too if you want."

He wordlessly took the glass of whiskey and drank it in two long gulps, never letting her out of his sight. Sansa stood by the armchair as he ate the sandwiches Rose had prepared; she placed another record on the turntable when the song ended and she became aware she didn't recall what songs they had listened to so far – except _'You'd be Surprised'_, because he had drawn her attention on it. Anything that wasn't related to the Hound didn't interest her. _Is it mutual attraction? Does this feeling work both ways?_ The Hound had eaten the sandwiches and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand when she turned to him again.

"How do you feel?" he asked her, a bit concerned.

It was such a change in his behavior since he had come in, from rudeness to solicitude, she surrendered and forgot the questions she wanted to ask him; she shrugged and avoided his gaze, convinced she could burst into tears.

"Come," he whispered, leaning forward and reaching out to take her hand.

He gently made her sit in his lap, her back to him and he rubbed her upper arms when he noticed she was cold.

"Tell me who hurt you," he urged her.

"Nobody hurt me," she replied. "I can't stand this place, that's all. I thought you would never come back."

"There was no fucking way to see you, after that show. No way to save a day here, no way to leave the Red Mansion... Are you sure none of your new customers hurt you?"

She shook her head vehemently.

"If they touch you, if they threaten you-"

"I don't want you to kill anyone," she cut him off, swiveling her hips and glancing around her shoulder. His expression was unreadable: when she decided there was something akin to guilt in the way he set his jaw, she noticed his pleading eyes. "That's what you did, right? You killed those men."

Silence stretched between them, giving her enough time to imagine the man who tried to comfort her as a murderer, and the gray, thoughtful eyes darkening with fury.

"I had to," he finally said. "I promised you I would get you out of this place without a scratch, and I already failed. Those pricks had threatened you and I couldn't let them come back here. You don't mourn them, do you?"

"I- I don't. How- How did they die?" she shyly asked, turning her back to him again.

She felt his muscles stiffen underneath her but he didn't refuse to speak.

"I beat that fat man you called Pig and I slit his throat."

His tone was so matter-of-fact when evoking Pig's death she repressed a shudder.

"As for Trant..." He sounded hesitating and she listened carefully to his confession. "I- I don't remember. I was drunk... I remember a back alley and Trant's car, that's all. I don't fucking know how I killed that bastard. I did it without a second thought: at least, I know that for sure. And I'll do it again."

The trumpet solo heralded the end of the song and Sansa left him to pick another record in the wooden box. All of a sudden, she remembered her confusion a few nights before, when she had realized the Hound could demand his reward anytime. _Is this what he wants? Why would he be so kind with me, suggesting he would kill again if need be, if it was not for a reward?_

Still sitting in the armchair, he contemplated her with an unreadable expression. _I know he wants me._ Sansa sucked in a deep breath, walked to the armchair, rested one knee next to his thigh and straddled him. Although she felt terribly awkward, she locked eyes with the Hound and noticed his frown. The kindness that had surprised her moments ago retreated from his gray eyes.

"What are you doing?" he rasped. "What do you think you're doing, little girl?"

"I thought-" she tried to explain, putting her hands on his shoulders, "I just thought you would like..."

Her position was unstable and he didn't do anything to help her find her balance; she instinctively bent back, fearing his furious reaction and wondering why she had taken such a foolish decision.

"I'd like what? I'd like to fuck you bloody after I killed a man who tried to rape you? That's how you see me? Fuck, you're behaving like a whore!"

_A whore?_ Taken aback by his disgusted look, she hastily got on her feet, then crossed her arms about her chest in a self-protective gesture.

"Is that how you see me?" she nearly shouted.

"I don't want you to act like a whore, like you just did, that's all I said!"

"So when you button down my dress to see my back or when you... look hard at me, it's fine, but if I try to show my gratitude-"

"It was not gratitude, girl! You were just mimicking these whores you live with. I barely recognized you when I came in, with your short hair and your thick make-up. And do me a favor: stop drenching yourself in perfumes!"

He pushed himself from the armchair and she stepped back immediately, fighting back tears. Sansa knew he was right and it infuriated her even more; her behavior since the minute he had arrived, alternating seduction and anger, was inconsistent and ludicrous. They looked at each other defiantly, as none of them wanted to acknowledge their wrongs, let alone to take all the blame. _You should act as an adult, instead of shouting like a little girl_, she admonished herself. Sansa felt it hard to admit, but she wasn't proud of her attitude; she nonetheless refused to apologize. _He compared me to a whore, he should apologize first._

The Hound glared at her, a cold rage distorting his features and giving a kind of horrifying symmetry to his face: the unburnt side looked as tense and threatening as the scarred one.

"Don't you worry, girl. I'll stay here until it's time for me to go; no need to slam the doors and to startle the blond whore who's your friend. Just put another record on the turntable from time to time."

He settled back in his seat, and an uncomfortable, never-ending one-on-one began.

* * *

**Thank you for reading and reviewing this story!**

**You can find more info about this fic, fashion in the 1920's and about the Prohibition Era on my tumblr: asimplylucia.**


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